The young man had been watching her face intently. He had seemed more pained than Cicely at her want of feeling. Now he drew a long breath, a sigh of relief; these words of Mirelle explained her coldness.
'I am sorry that he is dead,' she went on, 'but he ought not to have married my mother.'
'We cannot regret that,' said Mr. Battishill with awkward gallantry, 'since to that we are indebted for the pleasure of making your acquaintance.'
Mirelle considered for a moment, then she said simply, 'You mean that I should not have existed. True; I did not think of this.'
Mr. Battishill and the young man were unable to repress a smile. She was a curious mixture of simplicity, reserve, and frankness. The reserve was exercised over her feelings, but she was perfectly frank about her thoughts.
'Have you ever been to Cantal----? I have not quite caught the name.'
'I have never been in Spain at all,' answered Mirelle.
'In Paris. Where else should I live? One lives in Paris, one exists elsewhere.'
'Mr. Strange was a Brazilian diamond merchant. I mean a merchant of diamonds living in Brazil. My mother married him there. It was very good of my mother, but she was an angel. He was rich--_comme ça, mais bourgeois_. When I was born, my mother came to Paris to have me properly educated, and I lived there till the good God took her. I have been at school with the English sisters of the Sacré Coeur. When my father came to Paris he took me away, to bring me to his home in England.'
'He has none; he would make one. He has retired from his business.'
'What relations has he? They should be communicated with.'
'I do not know that he has any. My mother never spoke of my father's relations. She knew nothing of them; she did not want to know them. In this world everything is on shelves, and the things on each shelf are kept to themselves. Where they get mixed there is inextricable confusion. Above, angels; then kings, nobles, bourgeois, peasants, monkeys, and so down to the lowest form of life--those laid on the floor. My father's relatives were not noble.' Then suddenly, 'Are you noble, sir?'
Mr. Battishill threw up his head proudly. 'My family is gentle, and of ancient degree,' he said. 'We appeared in the Heralds' Visitation of 1620 in four descents, but I have title-deeds that show we were lords of the manor of West Wyke from the time of Edward the Third.'