They passed, on their way, the blackened wall of a disused factory. A blurred and feeble street-lamp threw a flickering light upon this wall. Pasted upon its surface was a staring and coloured advertisement of some insurance company, representing a phoenix surrounded by flames.
Philippa thought at once of the bonfire which was being prepared for the ensuing evening. Would Adrian’s boy really arrive in so short a time? And would Adrian himself, like that grotesque bird, so imperturbable in the midst of its funeral pyre, rise to new life after all this misery? Let it be her—oh, great heavenly powers!—let it be her and not Nance, nor Baptiste, nor any other, who should save him and heal him!
Still looking at the picture on the wall, she repeated to her companion a favourite verse of Mrs. Renshaw’s which she had learnt as a child.
“Death is now the phoenix’ nest
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest.
“Leaving no posterity,
’Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.”