"But you would have heard what he had to say, if I had not been in your house. Why am I in your house?"
"You came here."
"Was I wandering about by myself?"
"Yes, madame."
"I thought I must have been walking. When I came to myself I was so tired, and my shoes were muddy. If you want to see the priest I will go into another room."
"No, I will bring him in and let him give his message in your presence."
When Abbé Edgeworth was presented to her, he slightly raised his eyebrows, but expressed no astonishment at meeting her lucid eyes. Nor did I explain—"God has given her back her senses in a night."
The position in which she found herself was trying. She made him a grave courtesy. My house might have been the chateau in which she was born, so undisturbed was her manner. Her night wandering and mind-sickness were simply put behind us in the past, with her having taken refuge in my house, as matters which need not concern Abbé Edgeworth. He did not concern himself with them, but bent before her as if he had no doubt of her sanity.
I asked her to resume her place on the settle. There was a stool for the abbé and one for myself. We could see the river glinting in its valley, and the windrows of heights beyond it. A wild bee darted into the room, droning, and out again, the sun upon its back.
"Monsieur," I said to Abbé Edgeworth, "I am ready now to hear the message which you mentioned to me last night."