Later on in the great gaunt studio at the top of the pile of buildings in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, Anne stood before some of the pictures which in after years were to fetch great sums from art collectors, which were to be discussed by connoisseurs, to be execrated, loved, praised, condemned, admired.
She did not see them. For her at the moment, they were non-existent.
One thing only was in her mind; one idea, and that in the form of a question.
How should she accomplish what she had come to do?
This was the first time René had deliberately sought her alone, and in the circumstance, without malice, she divined the influence of François Fontenelle.
He had meant to be careful. He had meant to see her only in the presence of others, but,—she knew him so well that she could have smiled,—to-day he had thrown prudence to the wind.
Tenderness was in his voice, in his eyes, even while he kept tender words from his lips.
It grew dusk while she lingered. The blue of twilight filled the windows, and a ruddy gleam from the stove lay along the floor. Anne sat down on the couch, and René settled cushions at her back.
His hand touched her arm, and for a moment it rested there, before he turned abruptly away.
Earlier in the day, Anne had spoken of returning to Dymfield.