Nancy reflected.

“There’s the Passon—­” she began.

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Maryllia, with a little shrug of impatience; “Worse than the bone-boiler!—­a thousand times worse!  There!  That will do, Nancy!  I’ll stroll about till dinner’s ready.”

She left the room and descended the stairs, followed by the faithful Plato, and was soon to be seen by various retainers of the curious and excited household, walking slowly up and down on the grass terrace in her flowing white draperies, the afterglow of the sinking sun shining on her gold-brown hair, and touching up little reddish ripples in it,—­such ripples as were painted by the artist of Charles the Second’s day when he brushed into colour and canvas the portrait of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt.  Primmins, late butler to the irascible Sir Morton Pippitt, was so taken with the sight of her that he then and there resolved his ‘temp’ry service’ should be life-long, if he could manage to please her; and little Kitty Spruce being permitted by her mother to peep at the ‘new lady’ through the staircase window, could only draw a long breath and ejaculate:  “Oh!  Ain’t she lovely!” while she followed with eagerly admiring eyes the gossamer trail of Maryllia’s white gown on the soft turf, and strained her ears to catch the sound of the sweet voice which suddenly broke out in a careless chansonette: 

     “Tu m’aimes, cherie? 
      Dites-moi! 
      Seulement un petit ‘oui,’
      Je demande a toi! 
      Le bonheur supreme
      Vient quand on aime,
      N’est-ce-pas cherie? 
      ’Oui’!”

“She’s singin’ to herself!” said the breathless Kitty, whispering to her mother; “Ain’t she jest smilin’ and beautiful?”

“Well, I will own,” replied Mrs. Spruce, “she’s as different to the lady I expected as cheese from chalk, which they generally says chalk from cheese, howsomever, that don’t matter.  But if I don’t mistake, she’s got a will of ‘er own, for all that she’s so smilin’ and beautiful as you says, Kitty; and now don’t you go runnin’ away with notions that you can dress like ’er or look like ’er,—­for when once a gel of your make thinks she can imitate the fashions and the ways of a great lady, she’s done for, body and soul!  You ain’t goin’ to wear white gowns and trail ’em up an’ down on the grass, nor ’ave big dogs a-follerin’ up an’ down while you sings in a furrin langwidge to yerself; no, not if you was to read all the trashy story-books in the world—­so you needn’t think it.  For there ain’t no millionaires comin’ arter you, as they doos in penny novels,—­nor nothink else what’s dished up in newspapers; so jes’ wear your cotton frocks in peace, an’ don’t worry me with wantin’ to look like Miss Maryllia, for you never won’t look like ’er if ye tried till ye was dead!  Remember that, now!  The Lord makes a many women,—­but now and again He turns out a few chice samples which won’t bear copyin.’.  Miss Maryllia’s one of them samples, and we must take ’er with prayer and thanksgivin’ as sich!”