“The most beautiful woman of my acquaintance,” he replied gravely. “Because she has acquired her beauty—secreted it, in the same marvellous way that from hidden cells a rose draws its colour and its sweetness.”
Mrs. Dakin glanced at him curiously. “It takes a Frenchman to say that. But it describes Miss Page,” she added.
She hesitated a moment, curiosity very strong within her.
“You have known her a long time? Many years?” she asked.
“I first met sweet Anne Page twenty years ago, in this very house.”
He smiled, a quiet reminiscent smile.
“And she wasn’t young even then!” exclaimed Mrs. Dakin, involuntarily.
“Pardon me. Anne Page was always young, in the sense that the brooks and the hawthorn-trees and the roses are always young.”
The smile was still on his lips, and Mrs. Dakin blushed.
“Oh yes, I know,” she began hurriedly. “One never thinks of age with regard to her. I didn’t mean that exactly.”