“For old china?” she said, after a moment.  “Oh yes, I do.  But—­but—­I think you may find something happen that would make it unnecessary—­I mean it is very kind of you—­but I hope you will not think of sending me any.”

“What do you mean?  What is about to happen?”

“It is all a mystery and a secret as yet,” she said, with a smile.  She seemed so much more light-hearted than she had been the day before.

Then, as they walked by those cases, and admired this or that, she would recur to this forth-coming departure of his, despite of him.  And she was not at all sad about it.  She was curious; that was all.  Was there any difficulty in getting a cabin at short notice?  It was from Liverpool the big steamers sailed, was it not?  And it was a very different thing, she understood, travelling in one of those huge vessels, and crossing the Channel in a little cockle-shell.  He would no doubt make many friends on board.  Did single ladies ever make the voyage?  Could a single lady and her maid get a cabin to themselves?  It would not be so very tedious, if one could get plenty of books.  And so forth, and so forth.  She did not study the Chelsea shepherdesses very closely.

“I’ll tell you what I wish you would do, Natalie,” said he.

“I will do it,” she answered.

“When Lord Evelyn comes back—­some day I wish you would take Anneli with you for a holiday—­and Evelyn would take you down to have a look over the Beeches.  You could be back the same night.  I should like you to see my mother’s portrait.”

She did not answer.

“Will you do that?”

“You will know before long,” she said, in a low voice, “why I need not promise that to you.  But that, or anything else I am willing to do, if you wish it.”

The precious moments sped quickly.  And as they walked through the almost empty rooms—­how silent these were, with the occasional foot-falls on the tiled floors, and once or twice the distant sounding of a bell outside!—­again and again he protested against her saying another word about his going away.  What did it matter?  Once the pain of parting was over, what then?  He had a glad work before him.  She must not for a moment think she had anything to do with it.  And he could not regret that he had ever met her, when he would have these six mornings of happy intercommunion to think over, when the wide seas separated them?

“Natalie,” said he, reproachfully, “do you forget the night you and I heard Fidelio together?  And you think I shall regret ever having seen you.”

She smiled to herself.  Her hand clasped a certain envelope that he could not see.

Then the time came for their seeking out Anneli.  But as they were going through the twilight of a corridor she stopped him, and her usually frank eyes were downcast.  She took out that envelope.

“Dearest,” she said, almost inaudibly, “this is something I wish you to read after Anneli and I am gone.  I think you will—­you will not misunderstand me.  If you think—­it is—­it is too bold, you will remember that I have—­no mother to advise me; and—­and you will be kind, and not answer.  Then I shall know.”