Rose, in a somewhat confused, anything but an explanatory, greeting--for she would not tell him the truth of what she wanted, lest he should decline it--said she had come to request him to accompany her for a short time. He answered that he was at her service, and in another moment the three were walking down the street together. "Of all the sticklers for etiquette, I think Mary Carr's the worst," began Rose. "I wonder she does not apply for a post as maid-of-honour at court. The man asked us to go and wait in your rooms, and I should have gone had you not come in. She looked fit to faint at the bare idea." Mr. St. John laughed; his old low musical laugh. "Where would have been the harm?" went on Rose. "We are cousins, you know." "Of course we are," said Mr. St. John. "I thought you both expected to have been in England before this?" "We shall be there shortly now. At least, I shall. Mary, I believe, is going first to Holland. And you? You are going to Paris, we hear." "Yes, but not to stay. My old roving love of travel has come upon me, and I think I shall gratify it. A friend of mine leaves Paris next week for a prolonged exploration of the Holy Land, and I feel inclined to accompany him." "It does not look as though he were on the point of marrying Sarah Beauclerc," thought Rose to herself. For a wonder, she did not put the question. But not a word of inquiry from him after Adeline! And yet, only a few months before, they had been on the nearest and dearest terms, but a few hours removed from the closest tie that can exist in this world--that of man and wife. Oh, the changes that take place in this transitory world of ours. _She_ was dead, sleeping well after life's fitful fever; and he was walking there in all the pomp and pride of existence, haughtily indifferent, never unbending so far as to ask whether she was married to another, whether she was living or dead. And so they reached the residence of Signor de Castella, and entered the courtyard, St. John unconscious where he was going. He had never gone to the house but once, and then it was at night, and in Sir Sandy Maxwell's carriage. The hall-door was placed wide open. Silva stood on one side of it, bareheaded, another servant opposite to him, and as the various visitors passed between them, they bowed to each group in silence. It was the manner of receiving them. Mr. St. John, talking with Rose, advanced close to the door; but when he caught sight of Silva, he drew back. The old man looked at him with a pleasant look: St. John had always been a favourite with the Castella servants. Mary Carr left them then, and ran upstairs. "Why have you brought me here?" he demanded of Rose. "This is Signor de Castella's!" "I have not brought you without a motive, Mr. St. John. Pray come in with me." "You must excuse me," he said, very coldly.