"Monsieur has been called away on business and will not be here until Monday evening. Monsieur told me to tell Madame."
"And where is Mac?"
"He is buried in the garden. I will show Madame where is his grave in the morning."
"No, no, show me now."
Adèle looked for a moment as often in Mary's childhood she had been wont to look when her charge had expressed a desire to do something that Adèle considered unreasonable. However, nowadays it was she who must obey, and by the light of a foggy London moon she led the way across the lawn to where in the shadow of a grimy aucuba the mound was heaped above Mac's grave.
Mary gazed at it for a minute or two in silence, and without a word turned and walked back to the house.
"You can go to bed, Adèle. I shall not want you any more to-night."
While Mary brushed her hair before the oval mirror, the scenes of the life she had spent with Mac moved across her brain like the slides of a magic-lantern. She saw Jemmie arrive with him in a hansom-cab, saw him trying to coax him upstairs to the drawing-room at King's Gate.
"I've bought you a little dawg, Mary."