Thus it was that Pierre Menard, lean, tropically brown, his hair about the temples white and everywhere streaked with gray, his mustache and imperial still black, entered Mary's life again. Mary was glad that the auditorium was darkened when she saw him first, not so much because she feared that anybody would notice her agitation, but because she wanted to stare hard at Pierre without being oppressed by the consciousness of her surroundings. It seemed to her that he must be aware of her regard and that presently over a hundred heads he would glance back his recognition. "_Dis, Madeleine, n'est-ce pas qu'il est beau?_" one of the girls whispered to her neighbor. It was that nice and pretty creature Yvonne who had spoken. She had always been one of Mary's favorites. Driving back to Campden Hill, while street-lamp after street-lamp tossed its bouquet of golden light into the brougham, Mary pondered the course of her behavior in the near future. It might be that Pierre would scornfully reject the proffer of renewed friendship. If he had remembered her at all, she might be now a bitter memory; if he had forgotten her so completely that a letter from her would bring a puzzled frown to his brow.... Oh, it was difficult to decide what she ought to do. Mary did not consider the effect upon herself of bringing Pierre back into her life. It was of nothing except her effect upon him that she thought during that black and golden drive to Campden Hill. At home she found Adèle, who was her maid these days, waiting up. Madame must prepare herself for a shock; Madame must have courage; Madame must not give way to grief at the news she must break to Madame. "Nothing has happened to the children?" Mary exclaimed in terror. "_Ah, mais non, grâce à Dieu._ Nothing to them. It is the poor little Mac who is dead. He was run over, Madame, and must be shot, Monsieur said." "Where is Monsieur?" "Monsieur has been called away on business and will not be here until Monday evening. Monsieur told me to tell Madame." "And where is Mac?" "He is buried in the garden. I will show Madame where is his grave in the morning." "No, no, show me now." Adèle looked for a moment as often in Mary's childhood she had been wont to look when her charge had expressed a desire to do something that Adèle considered unreasonable. However, nowadays it was she who must obey, and by the light of a foggy London moon she led the way across the lawn to where in the shadow of a grimy aucuba the mound was heaped above Mac's grave. Mary gazed at it for a minute or two in silence, and without a word turned and walked back to the house. "You can go to bed, Adèle. I shall not want you any more to-night." While Mary brushed her hair before the oval mirror, the scenes of the life she had spent with Mac moved across her brain like the slides of a magic-lantern. She saw Jemmie arrive with him in a hansom-cab, saw him trying to coax him upstairs to the drawing-room at King's Gate.