“Here’s a sight to gladden the heart of the most rabid anarchist,” said he. “Who would have thought that Royalty could so far forget itself? But illness makes strange creatures of us, and the little girl _is_ ill. Very different from my first visit here. I must see what I can do. Even the devil is not so black as he is painted--unless he gets the opportunity!” Then, from curiosity only, he passed into Timothy’s silent room--like a shadow lost on the wall. “Not the stereotyped death-smile at all, Timothy,” said he. “They rave so here on Lucifram about the smile of death, which is at best as hollow and vacuous as that of the best painted society dame. But you’ve managed differently, somehow or other--thanks to the quack doctor, I suppose. Now, I wonder how those two parted this morning, for I presume they parted here--there’s so much electricity about. Misunderstanding, probably vowing they hated one another--for this isn’t all the Positive current of love.” And for the second time that day he held his sides with laughing, and instead of leaning on a lamp-post, he sat upon the bed. And the thin, wasted figure of little Patches lay quite still, content and peace and ineffable sweetness on his tiny baby face, for he had grown so very small of late. And at last St Armand rose, and before going, stooped over him again. And he patted the cold cheek almost kindly. “Well, well, my little boy, you’re out of it. If I could have done you an ill turn, I would have done--but, unavoidably, I couldn’t.” CHAPTER XXII So the next day Marigold and Alice returned to the Palace in the suburbs, which had been rented from a Duke whose pockets were always empty. And it was quite a treat again to be in the long gardens and the big airy rooms, away from poverty and the extreme closeness of neighbours. So, at least, Alice found--she who was less susceptible to surroundings than her mistress, yet at present evidently more so. For, though Marigold went back to her usual dress and her usual occupations, and received calls from certain stately ladies who had heard of her return from abroad, and returned them, it was all done without heart or life, or, rather, such a pathetic imitation that Alice could not bear to see. For now no more the gay voice rang through the corridors, nor the merry laugh; and the stoutest, stiffest dowager might come and go without one smile, one wry face or mimic action as the door closed. Marigold, who did it with no thought of offence, nor forgetfulness of her own shortcomings, but because it came so natural, and one must laugh at these dear things just as one laughed at oneself. And now, instead of the bright colours that had so greatly suited her, she dressed in nothing but black; and one day, when Alice remonstrated, having heard some remarks from the servants on her altered looks, she turned to a window, and for a minute the absent colour rose in her cheeks.