“I am inclined to think, Sir Owen, it must have been something of that kind, for of course there were no money difficulties.”

“The agony of mind she must have suffered!  The agony of the suicide!  And her agony, the worst of all, for she is a religious woman.”  Owen talked of how strange and mysterious are the motives which determine the lives of human beings.  “You see, all her life was in disorder—­ leaving the stage and giving me up.  Merat, there is no use in disguising it from you.  You know all about it.  Do you remember when we met for the first time?”

“Yes, Sir Owen; indeed I do.”  And the two stood looking at each other, thinking of the changes that time had made in themselves.  Sir Owen’s figure was thinner, if anything, than before; his face seemed shrunken, but there were only a few grey hairs, and the maid thought him still a very distinguished-looking man—­old, of course; but still, nobody would think of him as an old man.  Merat’s shoulders seemed to be higher than they were when he last saw her; she had developed a bust, and her black dress showed off her hips.  Her hair seemed a little thinner, so she was still typically French; France looked out of her eyes.  “Isn’t it strange?  The day we first met we little thought that we would come to know each other so well; and you have known her always, travelled all over Europe with her.  How I have loved that woman, Merat!  And here you are together, come from Park Lane to this poor little flat in Bayswater.  It is wonderful, Merat, after all these years, to be sitting here, talking together about her whom we both love, you have been very good to her, and have looked after her well; I shall never forget it to you.”

“I have done my best, Sir Owen; and you know mademoiselle is one of those whom one cannot help liking.”

“But living in this flat with her, Merat, you must feel lonely.  Do you never wish for your own country?”

“But I am with mademoiselle, Sir Owen; and if I were to leave her, no one else could look after her—­at least, not as I can.  You see, we know each other so well, and everything belonging to her interests me.  Perhaps you would like to see her, Sir Owen?”

“I’d like to see her, but what good would it do me or her?  I’ll see her in the evening, when I can speak to her.  To see her lying there unconscious, Merat—­no, it would only put thoughts of death into my mind; and she will have to die, though she didn’t die last night, just as we all shall have to die—­you and I, in a few years we shall be dead.”

“Your thoughts are very gloomy, Sir Owen.”

“You don’t expect me to have gay thoughts to-day, do you, Merat?  So here is where you live, you and she; and that is her writing-table?”

“Yes; she sits there in the evening, quite contented, writing letters.”

“To whom?” Owen asked.  “To no one but priests and nuns?”

“Yes, she is very interested in her poor people, and she has to write a great many letters on their behalf.”