She shook her head. “I’m all right,” she assured him, trying to smile. “I want to see the picture.”
He turned the easel towards her, and she looked at it a long time in silence.
“Do you like it?” asked François at last anxiously.
“It’s too good for me. It’s idealized,” she said. “But it’s the best thing you’ve ever done, François. I congratulate you. You’re right. It’s your masterpiece.”
He felt a warm glow of pleasure. Anne as he had often acknowledged was an admirable critic, instinctively a connoisseur, and her life amongst painters had trained and sharpened her natural perception. Secretly François stood in greater awe of Anne’s verdict on his work, than on that of many of his fellow-craftsmen.
“You have suggested all the Dymfield garden in those flowers,” she said after another silence.
“In you,” he returned quickly, wondering at the tone in her voice.
“I’m going to give you this, Anne,” he went on, speaking gaily to avert an uneasy fear. “I hope you appreciate the compliment. I lay my masterpiece at your feet, and you can pick it up and hang it in your salon, between the two long windows. That’s the place for it.”
She turned slowly from the picture, and her eyes met his, while she shook her head.
“No,” said she in a low voice. “I can’t take it, François.”