“Yes. Though you were once the queen of quite a brilliant salon.”
She was silent.
“When are you coming over to see your picture?”
“This autumn.” For a moment she paused. “You know my wishes, François? I have left René’s pictures to the Luxembourg. The two we like best—you know them—are to hang on either side of the portrait. It’s in my will, of course.”
He smoked a moment without speaking.
“I wonder if he’ll come and look at them?” he said at last. “I think he will, and you’ll smile at him out of the portrait.”
“I’m so glad he liked it,” she answered softly, after a long pause.
“He only saw it once. I never dared show it to him again. That’s why I put it away.”
The birds had begun their evening song, and the garden rang with the voices of blackbirds and thrushes.
“Well! I must get back to The Chase,” declared François, glancing at his watch. “I shall be late for dinner as it is. This is good-bye till September. Not a moment later mind, and then you will stay in Paris a decent time?”