They discussed the matter for a few moments. Various engagements on both sides postponed the first sitting for a fortnight, but a day was finally arranged.
“How long will it take?” asked Anne.
He made a gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know. A month perhaps, with luck. But this is going to be my masterpiece, Anne. I shall succeed, or perish in the attempt. Have you got that flowered gown you used to wear in the garden at Dymfield? I suppose not. Yes? Très bien! Bring it, I want to try an effect.”
He was interrupted by René, who came up at the moment, and laid his hand lightly on Anne’s arm.
“I want you to go and talk to Matignon, dear,” he said in a low voice. “He’s always bad tempered if you don’t pay him enough attention. Go and make love to the old boy.”
A vague uneasiness passed from François’s mind at the sound of his friend’s voice, always gentle when he spoke to Anne. It was even gentler than usual now, and he did not fail to notice the caress of his hand on her sleeve, nor the look of happy understanding between them, as she moved away, smiling, to obey him.
“I’m arranging for her to come and pose. I’m going to begin the picture at once,” he said.
“Bon!” returned René, his face lighting up. “You’ve taken your time about it.”
“One hesitates to begin one’s masterpiece,” François retorted. “You who do nothing else, except finish them, ought to have compassion on the weaker brethren.”
René made a laughing gesture of menace.