William sat down on the sofa, and drew her to him; the full tide of thankfulness going up from his heart that all women were not as the one he had just left.
"And what did Mademoiselle Varsini want with you, William? Is she really dying?"
"I think she is dying. You must not ask me what she wanted, Mary. It was to tell me something—to speak of things connected with herself and the Dares. They would not be pleasant to your ears."
"But I have been writing an account of all this to mamma, and have left my letter open, to send word what the governess could have to say to you. What can I tell her?"
"Tell her as I tell you, my dearest: that what I have been listening to is more fit for Mr. Ashley's ears than for yours or hers."
Mary rose and wrote rapidly the concluding lines. William stood and watched her. He laughed at the "smear."
"I am not familiar with my new name yet: I was signing myself 'Mary Ashley.'"
"Would you go back to the old name, if you could?" cried he, somewhat saucily.
"Oh, William!"
Saturday came round again: the day they were to leave—just a week since they had come, since the encounter in the park. They were taking an early walk in the market, when certain low sounds, as of chanting, struck upon their ears. A funeral was coming along; it had just turned out of the great church of St. Eloi, at the other corner of the Place. Not a wealthy funeral—quite the other thing. On the previous day they had seen a grand interment, attended by its distinguishing marks; seven or eight banners, as many priests. Some sudden feeling prompted William to ask whose funeral this was, and he made inquiry of a shopkeeper, who was standing at her door.