Then, suddenly, it flashed across him that his attitude was hardly correct toward a newly made widow, and the mirth died out of his blue eyes. "I wish," he said, "that my first visit had been at a less painful moment. Believe me..." He stammered, searching for words, trying to find the proper phrase. She watched him with a shade of malice, divining his perplexity. "Death is sad," she said calmly. "But it has to be ... and he was old." McTaggart started. This cold philosophy struck him as distinctly heartless, and with quick intuition she guessed his thought, a touch of sadness in her eyes. "You think it strange I speak like that?--My nephew, wait ... I am but nineteen. The marriage was arranged for me; I left the convent to come here. Ah! I was young--too young by far!" Under the ivory of her cheek the colour rose and into her eyes came a shrinking look, like a hurt child, remembering past punishment. "I come here, to this ... _tomb_," she shivered as she chose the word--"so gay, so fresh ... so innocent! He had seen me once among the Sisters--his cousin was the Mother Superior... "And then--to be alone so much. He loved Paris well, you see"--(McTaggart remembered the phrase before and the shrewd glance of the French guard)--"He did not take me even to Rome, but left me here with old Beppo. And jealous!--jealous all the time ... of his own sons--of my music master!---- "Ah--what a life!" Her hands went up. She gave a fierce little laugh. "I thank the good God from my heart. I make no pretence to you." A deep pity stirred the man with a horror of foreign marriages. He thought for a second of Cydonia--and pictured her, here and alone, at the mercy of the late marquis. His soul rose in revolt. "Poor little Aunt--I understand." His voice was grave, his eyes tender. She raised herself against the pillows with a quick smile of gratitude. "My nephew--I like you very much. You have a heart--one feels that. And--see you--I will pray for his soul." She crossed herself with a touch of fervour. "I will have many masses sung ... But regret?--ah, no! that is beyond me." A silence fell between the pair. McTaggart averted his eyes and they fell on the sombre hangings of the huge funereal-looking bed. "This is the custom here?" he asked. "The custom?" She frowned slightly. Then her tense look relaxed. The red lips quivered apart. "Dieu!--qu'il est drole!" She laughed aloud. "This?--and this?" She touched the curtains, then the counterpane with her hand. "You think this is mourning, perhaps?--Au contraire..." She shook with mirth. "Your Uncle had these made for _me_ ... il avait des idees ... assez bizarres!" She stretched out one perfect arm on the black satin and admired it. McTaggart felt a swift horror of the old man with his tired eyes. Then he laughed. The Marchesa's face was like an impudent, healthy child's. "And now, my nephew--au revoir. We meet again at twelve for lunch."