"Forgive me," said she, "but--have you anything to tell me about Mrs. Parflete?"
"May I call upon her? May I know her? Would she see me?"
"I don't see her," he said quietly; "I don't hear from her. I don't write to her. And--I don't talk about her. But I should like you to know her. She needs true friends--who understand."
"Have you been to Prince d'Alchingen's, or has he approached you in any way?"
"Has he said anything to you about the Marquis of Castrillon?"
"Not a word," replied Robert, in surprise: "why should he?"
"I believe there is mischief in the air. Be careful, won't you? Reckage is watching us. I think he would like some music. He is so _triste_ this evening."
She moved away, and played delightfully on the guitar until the guests rose to leave. Then she found an opportunity to tell Lord Reckage not to come back again. She was tired, she said, and her papa would think it too odd.
Robert, on leaving the house, drove to Grosvenor Gate, where he had an appointment with Disraeli. The ex-Minister was sitting, in a flowered dressing-gown, by the library fire. The blinds were not drawn, for the night was bright and starry; the moonlight streamed into the room, mingling strangely with the soft glow of the green-shaded lamp. There was a large bundle of documents on the table by Disraeli's side, and a pile of Continental newspapers on the floor. One of the latter he was reading, and, by the slight curl of his mouth and the gleam in his fine eyes, Orange saw that he was working out, to his amusement, some train of thought which gave full jurisdiction to his knowledge of humanity.
"Bismarck," said he, "is the first German statesman who has not regarded newspapers as inconvenient lumber. He wishes the Press to advance his great ideas by assuming the place of the Universities in training public opinion, and the place of the Church in controlling it. He might as well strive to make the horse into the lion, the mule into the unicorn, a parrot into the soaring eagle! Any man who is written up into a place can be written down out of it. Our friend will learn this too late--probably about the time that we, in England, are adopting, with enthusiasm, his present error. Ah, my dear Orange, watch the sky and you will learn the hearts of men. Observe the changing light, the clouds driven by the wind, the glimpses of pure blue, the sudden blackness, the startling brilliancy, and then--the monotonous grey. They seem too hard for me, at times. The clash between ideas and interests makes our inheritance a grim battlefield, and there are moments of mortification when one may feel tempted to sell it--not for a mess of pottage, but for the _promise_ of a mess of pottage. Tempted, I said. There is always a course left, if you have the courage to face it. It may avail you; I cannot insure you even that. But if I were in your place, I would try."
