“And the village! Thatched roofs all stained with moss. Oh, the colour of those roofs! Cottage gardens full of hollyhocks and roses. Such a church! If you’ve ever seen a really beautiful English village, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Dymfield is one of them.”
“And how did you get to know Anne?”
“Well, René’s mother had been a friend of the rich woman of the place, an old lady who no more deserved to possess Fairholme Court than she deserved Anne as her companion.”
“Cantankerous?”
“I don’t know anything about her moral qualities. Her taste was execrable. Anyhow René made his mother responsible for taking us to see the place—a wonderful jumble of every style from the fifteenth century downward. But beautiful! Mon Dieu, beautiful as a dream. And Fate was kind. The old lady was ill in bed, and sweet Anne—I told you she was her companion, didn’t I?—was forced to do the honours.”
François got up, and began to pace up and down the floor as he talked.
“We were all packed into the drawing-room to wait, the first time we called, and while René was making absurd remarks about the sofa cushions, and the bead mats, and the whole chamber of horrors, I caught sight of Anne coming across the lawn.
“She wore that gown.” He nodded towards the portrait. “An absurd thing really, but it suited her because it showed her figure.”
“Her figure was superb,” murmured the Vicomte.
“Yes.”