"How good of you to come, dear Sara!" she murmured, presenting her sallow cheek to the young girl with a touch of regal graciousness at once designed and impulsive; "I should have been lost without you. Anselm has invited a large party, and, as you know, I cannot talk to these dear people. I find them too clever, and they find me too stupid. The world is not willing to give me credit for that which I have done."
"And what is that, dearest?" asked the Prince.
"I married you!" she answered, with a quick flash of humour under her gravity. It was like the occasional sparkle in granite. "You may smile at the notion of my living on the reputation of what I might yet do," she continued, resuming her languor.
"Let us talk of pleasant things only, _chère amie_," said the Prince, turning to Sara; "mind you, not a word about graves and epitaphs. Mrs. Parflete has arrived. Castrillon has arrived. You need not trouble about the others. They are not--they cannot be--worth your while. But do watch Castrillon. I find that the greatest compliment he can pay to any woman is to sneer at her expense. He never permits himself the slightest epigram against those who have erred in kindness toward him. One witty but frail lady once implored him to miss no opportunity of abusing her in public. 'Otherwise,' said she, 'they will know all.' Isn't that a good story?"
Sara had recovered from the emotion called forth by Reckage's tragic fate, and she was living now in one of those taciturn reveries which had become more and more habitual with her since the last interview with d'Alchingen. Every force in her passionate, undisciplined soul was concentrated in a wild love for Orange, and every thought of her mind was fixed on the determination to win his affection in return. There were only two real powers in the world, she told herself; these were moral force and money. Money could not affect Robert. But he was susceptible to moral force. She resolved to display such an intrepid spirit, such strength of will, such devotion that Brigit would seem a mere doll in comparison.
"What do you think," she said, turning to the Princess, "of Mrs. Parflete? Your opinion is worth everything. Orange is infatuated with her. His criticism is therefore useless. The Prince disapproves of her parentage. He is therefore prejudiced. I wish to be charitable. I, therefore, say what I hardly think. Pensée Fitz Rewes is an innocent little fool. She judges all women by herself. You, Princess, are an angel of the world. Your verdict, quickly."
