“They went back to Paris yesterday.  I had Cecily with me for one whole day, but of herself she evidently did not wish to speak, and of course I asked no questions.  Both she and her husband looked well, however.  It pleased me very much to hear her talk of you; all her natural tenderness and gladness came out; impossible to imagine a more exquisite sincerity of joy.  She is a noble and beautiful creature; I do hope that the shadow on her life is passing away, and that we shall see her become as strong as she is lovable.  She said she had written to you.  Your letter at the time of your marriage was a delight to her.

“It happened that on the day when she was here we had a visit from—­whom think you?  Mr. Bradshaw, accompanied by his daughter Charlotte and her husband.  The old gentleman was in London on business, and had met the young people, who were just returning from their honeymoon.  He is still the picture of health, and his robust, practical talk seemed to do us good.  How he laughed and shouted over his reminiscences of Italy!  Your marriage had amazed him; when he began to speak of it, it was in a grave, puzzled way, as if there must be something in the matter which required its being touched upon with delicacy.  The substitution of baths for a chapel at Bartles obviously gave him more amusement than he liked to show; he chuckled inwardly, with a sober face.  ’What has Mallard got to say to that?’ he asked me aside.  I answered that it met with your husband’s entire approval.  ‘Well,’ he said, ’I feel that I can’t keep up with the world; in my day, you didn’t begin married life by giving away half your income.  It caps me, but no doubt it’s all right.’  Mrs. Bradshaw by-the-bye, shakes her head whenever you are mentioned.

“You will like to hear of Mr. and Mrs. Marsh.  Charlotte is excessively plain, and I am afraid excessively dull, but it is satisfactory to see that she regards her husband as a superior being, not to be spoken of save with bated breath.  Mr. Marsh is rather too stout for his years, and I should think very self-indulgent; whenever his wife looks at him, he unconsciously falls into the attitude of one who is accustomed to snuff incense.  He speaks of ‘my Bohemian years’ with a certain pride, wishing one to understand that he was a wild, reckless youth, and that his present profound knowledge of the world is the result of experiences which do not fall to the lot of common men.  With Cecily he was superbly gracious—­talked to her of art in a large, fluent way, the memory of which will supply Edward with mirth for some few weeks.  The odd thing is that his father-in-law seems more than half to believe in him.”

Time went on.  Cecily’s letters to her friends in England grew rare.  Writing to Eleanor early in the spring, she mentioned that Irene Delph, who had been in Paris since Mrs. Lessingham’s death, was giving her lessons in painting, but said she doubted whether this was anything better than a way of killing time.  “You know Mr. Seaborne is here?” she added.  “I have met him two or three times at Madame Courbet’s, whom I was surprised to find he has known for several years.  She translated his book on the revolutions of ’48 into French.”