She threw a shawl over her head and shoulders with, as George could not help remarking, all the innate grace and ease of a Frenchwoman, took his arm, and descended the stairs into the garden. It was indeed a lovely morning, just at that time when Summer makes her last determined fight before gracefully surrendering to Autumn. The turf was yet green and soft, though somewhat faded here and there by the sun's long-continued power, and the air was mild; but the paths were already flecked with leaves, and ruddy tints were visible on the extreme outer foliage of the trees. When they arrived in the grounds, they found several of the patients already there; some chattering to each other, others walking moodily apart. Many of them seemed to treat Madame Vaughan with marked deference, and exhibited that deference in immediately clearing out of the way, and leaving her and her companion unmolested in their walk. After a few turns up and down, George said: "Well, _maman_, and the special business?" "Ah yes, George, I had forgotten," said Madame, pressing her hand to her head. "I dreamed about _her_ last night, George--about my child." "Not an uncommon dream for you, surely, _maman?_" said George kindly. "What you are always thinking of by day will most probably not desert your mind at night." "No, not at all uncommon; but I have never dreamed of her as I dreamed last night. George, she is coming; you will see her very soon." "I! But you, _maman_--you will see her too?" "I am not so sure of that, George. She was all dim and indistinct in my dream. I think I shall be dead, George; but you will see her; I shall have the comfort of knowing that, and--and of knowing that you will love her, George." "Why, _maman_, of course I shall love her, for your sake." "No, George; for her own. You will love her for her own sake, and you will marry her, my son." "_Maman, maman!_" said George, taking her hand, and looking up into her face with a loving smile. "But how do you know that she will consent? You forget I am an old bachelor, and----" "You will marry her, George," said Madame, her face clouding over at once. "And yet--and yet she is but an infant, poor child!" "There, there, _maman_ darling----" "No, no; don't attempt to get out of it. And yet I saw it all--you and she at St. Peter's after Tenebrae, and I--and----" "Now this is a question for my father to be consulted on," said George. "He is the only man who could help us in this difficulty, and he's away in the country, you know. We must wait till he comes back;" and he drew her quietly towards the house. "Poor dear _maman!_" said George Wainwright to himself, as he stood waiting for the omnibus which was to bear him into town. "What a strange idea! Not so far wrong, though! A phantom evolved from a diseased brain, a nothing. A creature without existence is the only wife I'm ever likely to have! I only wish young Paul was as heart-free, and as likely to remain so." CHAPTER IX. DEAR ANNETTE.