“You are so beautiful!” she exclaimed suddenly.
The first smile Anne had seen came to her lips.
“I shall pray that my first baby may have eyes just like yours,” she said, almost gaily. “And hair like your lovely hair—when she’s a little older.”
Anne laughed. “It used to be brown. It went white very quickly—in three months.”
As she glanced into the mirror above the fireplace, she thought suddenly of François’s portrait with its mass of soft fair hair, couleur de miel; couleur de poussière dorée. She remembered the epithets of the painters.
“I must go now,” she said. “To-morrow Harry will be here to take care of you. Make yourself look pretty, Madge. Put on your nicest frock, and do your hair the way he likes, high up, you know, with little fluffy curls about. And make the room pretty, dear. I’ll order some flowers to be sent round to-night. Lots of them, so you’ll have plenty to do to arrange them. No more sitting by the fire and crying, mind! No looking back. Only look forward.”
Madge held her tight. “Oh! you’ve given me so much courage!” she exclaimed with a long sigh of relief. “You dearest of women. I’ll do everything you tell me.”
XX
Outside, in the lighted street, Anne called a cab, and gave the address of the nearest florist.
Her thoughts dwelt upon Madge, as the carriage rattled down the boulevard.