His conversation was much the same, however.  We spoke English as usual.  I had grown, he said, into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, and my air and my dignity were worthy of the ancien regime.  I had found, he hoped, that his conseils had been of some use to me in my brief married life.

“Yes, Marquis,” I said, “I have often been grateful to you and grandmamma.”

“You are of a great richesse now, n’est-ce pas, mon enfant?”

“Yes, of a richesse.  And so I have given all the Gurrage money back to one of their family—­you may remember her—­Amelia Hoad was her name.”

“Ah!” he said, and he kissed my hand.  “That was worthy of you and worthy of your race.  It would have pleased our dear madam.”

“I had become so rich, you see, from papa, I did not really want the money, and I had a feeling that if I gave it all back I should have no further ties with them.  I could slip away into another atmosphere and gradually forget this year of my life.”

We had a delightful luncheon, in spite of my poor old guest’s infirmities; he had grown blinder and more tottering since last we met.  He eat very little and sipped his sparkling hock.

I had determined somehow to try and give him some of my great wealth; but how even to broach the subject I did not know.  At last, driven into a corner with nervousness, I blurted out my wishes.

“Oh, I want you to benefit too, dear friend!” I said.  “You shared our poverty, why not my riches?”

His old, faded cheeks turned pink.  He rose from his chair.

“I thank you, madam,” he said, haughtily.  “The de Rochermonts do not accept money from women.”

I felt as I used to when grandmamma was ever displeased with me.  My knees shook.

“Oh, please forgive me!” I implored.  “I have always looked upon myself as almost your child, although we are no relations, dear Marquis, and I thought—­”

“Assez, assez, mon enfant,” he said, and he resumed his chair, “You meant it gentiment, but it was a betise quand meme.  We shall speak of it no more.”

Before he left he gave me some more conseils.

“You took no amant, child?  No?  Well, perhaps in England it was as well.  But now listen to me.  Be in no hurry de prendre un second mari.  The agrements of life are at their beginnings for you.  All doors fly open to a jeune et belle veuve. Amusez-vous bien.”

I looked at him.  We were such old friends.  I could speak to him.

“Even if one loved some one very much, Marquis?” I asked.

“On ne sait jamais combien de temps cela va durer, l’amour a vingt ans!  C’est dangereux!” And he shook his head.  Then, with an air of illumination, “It is your kinsman, Sir Thornhirst?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And you love him very much?”