On the afternoon of the day after the funeral the Duke and his guest met, almost for the first time since the sad event.  There had been just a pressure of the hand, just a glance of compassion, just some murmur of deep sorrow,—­but there had been no real speech between them.  Now he had sent for her, and she went down to him in the room in which he commonly sat at work.  He was seated at his table when she entered, but there was no book open before him, and no pen ready to his hand.  He was dressed of course in black.  That, indeed, was usual with him, but now the tailor by his funeral art had added some deeper dye of blackness to his appearance.  When he rose and turned to her she thought that he had at once become an old man.  His hair was grey in parts, and he had never accustomed himself to use that skill in managing his outside person by which many men are able to preserve for themselves a look, if not of youth, at any rate of freshness.  He was thin, of an adust complexion, and had acquired a habit of stooping which, when he was not excited, gave him an appearance of age.  All that was common to him; but now it was so much exaggerated that he who was not yet fifty might have been taken for over sixty.

He put out his hand to greet her as she came up to him.  ‘Silverbridge,’ he said, ’tells me that you go back to London tomorrow.’

’I thought it would be best, Duke.  My presence here can be of no comfort to you.’

’I will not say anything can be of comfort.  But of course it is right that you should go.  I can have no excuse for asking you to remain.  While there was yet a hope for her—­’ Then he stopped, unable to say a word further in that direction, and yet there was no sign of a tear and no sound of a sob.

‘Of course I would stay, Duke, if I could be of any service.’

‘Mr Finn will expect you to return to him.’

’Perhaps it would be better that I should say that I would stay were it not that I know that I can be of no real service.’

‘What do you mean by that, Mrs Finn?’

‘Lady Mary should have with her at such a time some other friend.’

’There was none other whom her mother loved as she loved you—­none, none.’  This he said almost with energy.

’There was no one lately, Duke, with whom circumstances caused her mother to be so closely intimate.  But even that perhaps was unfortunate.’

‘I never thought so.’

’That is a great compliment.  But as to Lady Mary, will it not be well that she should have with her, as soon as possible, someone,—­ perhaps someone of her own kindred if it be possible, or, if not that, at least one of her own kind?’

‘Who is there?  Whom do you mean?’

’I mean no one.  It is hard, Duke, to say what I do mean, but perhaps I had better try.  There will be,—­probably there have been,—­some among your friends who have regretted the great intimacy which chance produced between me and my lost friend.  While she was with us no such feeling would have sufficed to drive me from her.  She had chosen for herself, and if others disapproved of her choice that was nothing to me.  But as regards Lady Mary, it will better, I think, that from the beginning she should be taught to look for friendship and guidance to those—­to those who are more naturally connected with her.’