"Will you see that a small pension is settled on Thérèse; and, should she wish to continue in her present position, interest yourself in obtaining for her another situation?" "I will attend to her interests as honestly and thoroughly as I think you would yourself." "I do not recommend Patient to you, since she is already rather your servant than mine, and you will be careful of her, I know. Celia has a great liking for her: I dare say she will wish to take her to England." "Do you object to that, Madam?" asked Celia. "Not in the least," replied Lady Ingram. "Do you?" continued Celia, this time addressing Edward. "For a time, certainly not. I should not like to part with her altogether; but, on the other hand, I should not allow you to travel to England without a woman in your company. Patient shall go with you, and after my marriage let her return to me, wherever I may resolve to dwell." "Thank you. You will write to me, then?" "I will come to you, if you are willing to receive me. We have seen very little of each other yet." "Very little," said Celia, rather sadly. "Now, my children, leave me," requested Lady Ingram, faintly. "I am too weak to converse much. Send Patient to me." Ten days later saw them journeying in company by easy stages to Paris; and ten days after that witnessed a solemn ceremony in the convent chapel of Sainte Marie de Chaillot, at which Queen Maria Beatrice, Madame de Maintenon, and a brilliant crowd of distinguished persons were present, when Claude Ingram took upon herself the white veil of a postulant. Edward and Celia were there, the latter with a slight misgiving whether she were not sanctioning idolatry to some extent, even by her appearance: a suspicion not laid to rest by the manifest disapproval and uncompromising speeches of Patient. "'Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?'"[26] asked she. But Celia was determined to see the last of Lady Ingram; and Edward promised to lead her out before anything objectionable began. To her it was an inexpressibly mournful ceremony. The different stages of the rites--the shearing off of the glossy hair, the taking of the vows, the white veil of the postulant--all seemed to her as so many epitaphs on the grave of a living woman. When the brother and sister went down to the guest-chamber to take leave of the novice, Celia was sobbing hysterically. Lady Ingram parted from both with a very warm embrace. She appeared much softened. "Farewell, my child!" she said to Celia. "And you will not live always in England? You will come and see me at least once more? And when you pray to God in your _prêches_, do not quite forget Soeur Marie Angélique." Celia turned from the convent-gate with a sadder heart than she ever thought she could have felt at her parting from Claude Ingram.