"I suppose we are both in mourning for the same person," she remarked, in allusion to the narrow band of crape on his hat: "little George St. John." "Yes," he shortly answered. "What did she die of?" "Of consumption: at least, that is what the doctors would tell you. I won't say anything about a broken heart." Mr. St. John made no reply. Rose resumed: "From the moment that blood-vessel burst, there has been, I suppose, no real hope, no possibility of cure. But she rallied so greatly, and seemed so well, that I, for one, believed in it." He looked at Rose; the words seemed to arouse his curiosity. "When did she burst a blood-vessel?" "It was at Beaufoy. It was--why, yes, it was the very day you were last there, Mr. St. John, almost in your sight. You remember the morning you quitted the house, and never came back again?--did you notice Adeline running down the steps of the colonnade after you, imploring you to stop?--did you notice that she sank down on the grass, as if from fatigue?" "I think I did," he answered, in allusion to the last question. "I know she followed me down the steps." "It was then the blood-vessel broke; through emotion, no doubt. Had you but looked back once again, you might have seen what was amiss. I never shall forget the sight. Just at first I had thought her foot slipped and threw her down, next I thought she was kneeling for a joke: but when I reached her, I saw what it was. One minute longer, and you would have seen the whole house gathered round her on the lawn. She was got indoors, and the doctors were sent for. What a house it was! She thought she was dying; and I believe the chiefest wish of her heart then was to see you." "Why did you not send for me?" "We did send. I wrote to you, and Louise took the note at once to the Lodge. But you had already gone--turning Madame Baret's brains upside down with the shock." "You might have sent it after me to England." "Of course I might--if I had only known you were gone to England. How was I to know it? I might be wishing to get a note to some one in the moon, but not see my way clear to writing the address. It was weeks, and weeks, and weeks, Mr. St. John, before we ever heard a syllable of you, whether you were in England or in any other part of the known world, or whether you were at the bottom of the sea." "And she never married de la Chasse?" The words seemed spoken as a remark, not as a question. Rose, who seemed to have a touch of one of her ironical moods coming on, answered it: