He got up and switched on all the lights, revealing the spacious room, and the beautiful things it contained; revealing also once more the portrait on the easel.
The Vicomte again examined it. “The Luxembourg has made a good choice,” he repeated. “It’s a beautiful thing, mon cher. Gracious, dignified, sweet—but sad. In spite of the smile, because of it, I suppose, profoundedly sad. But why? She was not, she is not a sad woman.”
François was moving about the room, rearranging the canvases against the wall.
“She was sad then.”
The Vicomte waited, but François said no more, and the conversation turned upon other matters.
As he rose to go, he stooped to examine a little sketch propped up on the top of a cabinet, against the wall.
“That’s rather nice,” he remarked critically. “It’s the little woman I met here the other day, isn’t it? Dark. Pretty. English. Who is she?”
“A Mrs. Dakin. By the way, she’s one of Anne Page’s friends. One of the people in her village. She’s staying here with Madame Didier.”
“Louis Didier’s wife? Did they know her then?” asked his friend quickly.
“Who? Anne? No. It was all ages before their time. Louis has only been in Paris five or six years.”