A deep pity stirred the man with a horror of foreign marriages. He thought for a second of Cydonia—and pictured her, here and alone, at the mercy of the late marquis. His soul rose in revolt.
"Poor little Aunt—I understand." His voice was grave, his eyes tender.
She raised herself against the pillows with a quick smile of gratitude.
"My nephew—I like you very much. You have a heart—one feels that. And—see you—I will pray for his soul." She crossed herself with a touch of fervour. "I will have many masses sung ... But regret?—ah, no! that is beyond me."
A silence fell between the pair. McTaggart averted his eyes and they fell on the sombre hangings of the huge funereal-looking bed.
"This is the custom here?" he asked.
"The custom?" She frowned slightly. Then her tense look relaxed. The red lips quivered apart. "Dieu!—qu'il est drôle!" She laughed aloud. "This?—and this?" She touched the curtains, then the counterpane with her hand.
"You think this is mourning, perhaps?—Au contraire..." She shook with mirth.
"Your Uncle had these made for me ... il avait des idées ... assez bizarres!" She stretched out one perfect arm on the black satin and admired it.
McTaggart felt a swift horror of the old man with his tired eyes. Then he laughed. The Marchesa's face was like an impudent, healthy child's.