Conspicuous among the crowd was the lady whose portrait he had recently painted.
Blanche Aubriot was the wife of an elderly roué, who regarded her very pronounced flirtations with an indifference equal to that which she on her side extended towards his infidelities.
She was a beautiful young woman of two or three and twenty, childless, soulless, and much admired.
To-night she wore the green dress of the picture, and held her court with her usual piquante vivacity.
François regarding the scene with critical and observant eyes, noticed how frequently her glance wandered in René’s direction, and with amusement, her oft-repeated efforts to attract his attention.
His own eyes turned again to Anne, where she stood surrounded by friends, laughing and talking.
He watched her to-night with peculiar admiration.
Curiously enough Dampierre had never painted her.
Once soon after they had settled in their apartment, François had spoken of it as a foregone conclusion.
“She’s just your type—the essentially feminine type of woman.”