‘Staying with James Steadman,’ repeated the old man in a meditative tone.  ’Yes, I stay with Steadman.  A good servant, a worthy person.  It is only for a little while.  I shall be leaving Westmoreland next week.  And you live in that house, do you?’ pointing to the dead wall.  ’Whose house?’

‘Lady Maulevrier’s.  I am Lady Maulevrier’s granddaughter.’

‘Lady Mau-lev-rier.’  He repeated the name in syllables.  ’A good name—­an old title—­as old as the conquest.  A Norman race those Maulevriers.  And you are Lady Maulevrier’s granddaughter!  You should be proud.  The Maulevriers were always a proud race.’

‘Then I am no true Maulevrier,’ answered Mary gaily.

She was beginning to feel more at her ease with the old man.  He was evidently mad, as mad as a March hare; but his madness seemed only the harmless lunacy of extreme old age.  He had flashes of reason, too.  Mary began to feel a friendly interest in him.  To youth in its flush of life and vigour there seems something so unspeakably sad and pitiable in feebleness and age—­the brief weak remnant of life, the wreck of body and mind, sunning itself in the declining rays of a sun that is so soon to shine upon its grave.

‘What, are you not proud?’ asked the old man.

’Not at all.  I have been taught to consider myself a very insignificant person; and I am going to marry a poor man.  It would not become me to be proud.’

‘But you ought not to do that,’ said the old man.  ’You ought not to marry a poor man.  Poverty is a bad thing, my dear.  You are a pretty girl, and ought to marry a man with a handsome fortune.  Poor men have no pleasure in this world—­they might just as well be dead.  I am poor, as you see.  You can tell by this threadbare coat’—­he looked down at the sleeve from which the nap was worn in places—­’I am as poor as a church mouse.’

‘But you have kind friends, I dare say,’ Mary said, soothingly.  ’You are well taken care of, I am sure.’

’Yes, I am well taken care of—­very well taken care of.  How long is it, I wonder—­how many weeks, or months, or years, since they have taken care of me?  It seems a long, long time; but it is all like a dream—­a long dream.  Once I used to try and wake myself.  I used to try and struggle out of that weary dream.  But that was ages ago.  I am satisfied now—­I am quite content now—­so long as the weather is warm, and I can sit out here in the sun.’

‘It is growing chilly now,’ said Mary, ’and I think you ought to go indoors.  I know that I must go.’

‘Yes, I must go in now—­I am getting shivery,’ answered the old man, meekly.  ’But I want to see you again, Mary—­I like your face—­and I like your voice.  It strikes a chord here,’ touching his breast, ’which has long been silent.  Let me see you again, child.  When can I see you again?’

‘Do you sit here every afternoon when it is fine?’

‘Yes, every day—­all day long sometimes when the sun is warm.’