“Anne,” he began gently, “There hasn’t been anything? Any...?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. But it’s coming. This has been in my mind for weeks. It was there though I scarcely knew it, before you wanted me to sit to you. When you asked me, I knew certainly.”
The spring twilight lingered in the studio, and he could still see her face, white against the cushion he had put into the chair.
As he listened to her quiet low voice, all she was saying seemed to him like the illusion of a dream.
Anne to be talking of leaving René! It was an absurd hallucination on his part—a trick of his imagination.
“But René?” he asked nevertheless. “He doesn’t know? Why, I saw him early this morning, and he spoke of you——”
For the first time, her voice trembled, and he watched her slim hands travelling aimlessly over the frills on her dress.
“He doesn’t know,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you.” There was a long silence, and he saw her fighting for composure.
“François,” she began at last in a whisper. “He won’t understand at first. He’ll think me cruel, and wicked and inexplicable.” She caught her breath, but went on bravely. “You are far sighted too. You know as well as I do, the woman who will—who will——
“He doesn’t know it yet himself. He still loves me. Now, to-day. And that’s why I’m going. I couldn’t bear.... He must be quite free. It was only on those terms I agreed with myself to—to——” She was shivering now from head to foot, and the words came in gasps like the words of a dying woman. “It has lasted for three years, and I thought it might only be three months. I have had quite ... quite a long life, François.”