“The condescension, you mean.  Yes.”

“And she has refused him?”

“And twenty thousand a year.”

“What immorality!”

“Worse.  What absurdity!”

“How is it to be accounted for?  Is it the old story?  ’I could never love him.’  No; that’s inadequate; for they all love a title and twenty thousand a year.”

Rosa sewed on all this time in demure and absolute silence.

“She ignores us,” said Philip.  “It is intolerable.  She does not appreciate our politeness in talking at her.  Let us arraign her before our sacred tribunal, and have her into court.  Now, mistress, the Senate of Venice is assembled, and you must be pleased to tell us why you refused a title and twenty thousand a year, with a small but symmetrical earl tacked on.”

Rosa laid down her work, and said quietly, “Uncle, almost the last words that passed between me and my Christopher, we promised each other solemnly never to marry again till death should us part.  You know how deep my sorrow has been that I can find so few wishes of my lost Christopher to obey.  Well, to-day I have had an opportunity at last.  I have obeyed my own lost one; it has cost me a tear or two; but, for all that, it has given me one little gleam of happiness.  Ah, foolish woman, that obeys too late!”

And with this the tears began to run.

All this seemed a little too high-flown to Mr. Lusignan.  “There,” said he, “see on what a straw her mind turns.  So, but for that, you would have done the right thing, and married the earl?”

“I dare say I should—­at the time—­to stop his crying.”

And with this listless remark she quietly took up her sewing again.

The sagacious Philip looked at her gravely.  He thought to himself how piteous it was to see so young and lovely a creature, that had given up all hope of happiness for herself.  These being his real thoughts, he expressed himself as follows:  “We had better drop this subject, sir.  This young lady will take us potent, grave, and reverend seignors out of our depth, if we don’t mind.”

But the moment he got her alone he kissed her paternally, and said, “Rosa, it is not lost on me, your fidelity to the dead.  As years roll on, and your deep wound first closes, then skins, then heals—­”

“Ah, let me die first—­”

“Time and nature will absolve you from that vow; but bless you for thinking this can never be.  Rosa, your folly of this day has made you my heir; so never let money tempt you, for you have enough, and will have more than enough when I go.”

He was as good as his word; altered his will next day, and made Rosa his residuary legatee.  When he had done this, foreseeing no fresh occasion for his services, he prepared for a long visit to Italy.  He was packing up his things to go there, when he received a line from Lady Cicely Treherne, asking him to call on her professionally.  As the lady’s servant brought it, he sent back a line to say he no longer practised medicine, but would call on her as a friend in an hour’s time.