Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!”
“For praise, read paint,” said René, taking the book and closing it. “It’s the same thing. You’re the man to paint her. Ask her to sit for you.”
François had always delayed to avail himself of the suggestion.
To-night he determined to delay no longer. Crossing the room, he joined the little group round Anne, and presently drew her away.
“I haven’t had a word with you this evening,” he said. “And now you must give me one, or even two. About that portrait. I think the time has come. When will you sit for me?”
Even at the moment, he was struck by the curious expression which crossed her face.
When afterwards he tried to analyze it, he could only think of the face of a woman who expecting a signal of some sort, had heard, and accepted it.
“When would you like me to come?” she asked.
She was standing at the end of the room by the fire, and as she raised her eyes, François saw in them the look which did not escape him when he came to paint them.