“Yes,” she said. “But it makes me sad that those monks, they are all gone from your land.” Then she told me of all that the nuns had been to her in her haunted childhood; of their cheerfulness, their patience with the child who was unlike other children. I did not wonder she reverenced religious orders. For my part, realising as I did that Lilia’s love for me was the cause of Mercedes’ sad life, I blessed them. Returning home, my chastened mood was roughly dispelled by a significant incident. A fine barouche and pair drove past us: in it sat Colonel Roderick Pym, his wife, Lady Carnwood—(how objectionable is that fashion of re-married widows retaining their late husband’s name!)—and his pretty stepdaughters. I cut him dead, as I have steadily done. To my astonishment he bowed low, raising his hat, and the prince did the same. I looked at Mrs. Mervyn. She got very red. The prince explained. “Who is that gentilman?” he asked me. “I see him with my fren, the count. I not know at all that he live here.” This explained the paragraph in the paper. Roderick Pym and the count in league! Without absolute confirmation I would swear those two are our enemies. _Our_ enemies? How natural it has been to class myself with my twin soul; but to what will it lead? How will our spiritual union end? That spiritual union which came about this-wise. First of all, after some bright days spent almost entirely with her—days made up of long strolls in the part of the garden which had been best kept up since Lilia’s death (the flower-gardens in the Pinewood, including the terrace, I had let go; it would have been useless expense to keep them trim and fair as in Sir Roderick’s time)—after our drives, our chats at dinner, rendered livelier by little sparrings between Lady Forwood and Mrs. Mervyn, and our talks in the softly lighted drawing-room, peace was disturbed by a telegram which arrived one day at luncheon for the prince. He turned a yellowish white, and a remarkably nasty expression changed his face from moderately pleasant to cowardly hang-dog. Still, he was well-bred enough to conceal further emotion. I saw Mercedes look uneasy. After luncheon he evidently asked her for a _tête-à-tête_, quite an event between those two. I was sitting in the library, anxious, when a tap came at the door, and enter Sir David and the prince. “The prince, not feeling his English equal to the occasion, Paull, wishes me to explain to you that some bad news about a recent speculation obliges him to return to town at once,” said Sir David; then, evidently noticing my dismayed look, he added, hurriedly: “He asks a continuance of your hospitality for the princess.” Of course, I said I should be delighted. I was not sorry to be rid of the man; but somehow I augured ill for Mercedes for the future. Heaven avert the evil, whatever it may be!