“He must have been in love with her!” The idea ran into the undercurrent of her thoughts. “Perhaps he is still. It would be awfully romantic. And not absurd at all,” she added, as a sudden mental supplement. “Sweet Anne Page is quite pretty.”
Aloud, still impelled by irresistible curiosity, she went on asking questions.
“But this house didn’t belong to her then, did it? We haven’t been at Dymfield long enough, of course, but the old people in the village remember when Mrs. Burbage lived here.”
“Mrs. Burbage! Yes, I’d forgotten. That was the name.”
“It was quite a romantic story, wasn’t it?” went on Mrs. Dakin, vivaciously. “You know it, of course? Miss Page was companion to old Mrs. Burbage for years before she died. She had a nephew, and naturally every one imagined that he would come into the property. But he displeased her in some way, and she left everything to Miss Page. At least, so I’m told. Is it right?”
Monsieur Fontenelle bowed. “I believe so.” He laughed suddenly. “When I first knew the house, it was horrible. This beautiful room, for instance, was full of antimacassars and wool-work mats. The old lady had—how do you call it? Mid-Victorian—yes, Mid-Victorian tastes.”
“Glass shades with wax fruits underneath, I suppose? Rep curtains and that sort of thing.”
“Oh, c’était affreux!” he agreed, with a comic gesture of horror.
“How Miss Page must have enjoyed refurnishing it! She has such exquisite taste, hasn’t she? But the garden? The garden must always have been lovely.”
“It was neglected. Mrs. Burbage was an invalid—fortunately. For the garden, I mean. But Anne had begun to work her magic even then. The first time I ever saw her she had been planting roses round a sundial.”