"Bah!" said Sara, "I cannot play--unless there is some one to play for. As for languages--I cannot talk alone. And as for reading--I cannot find all my world between the covers of a book."
"I want to live for myself. I have one inseparable companion--that is myself. I want to suffer my own sufferings, and enjoy my own enjoyments. This living for others is absurd. I hate second-hand emotions; they are stale and dull. But, Pensée, you haven't told me the name of your friend."
"I thought I had," said Pensée, simply; "you will see it in the marriage notice the day after to-morrow. It is Robert Orange."
Sara stared for a moment. Then the string of gold beads which she wore round her throat suddenly broke, and the shining ornaments fell all about her to the floor.
"Dear me!" said Sara, kneeling down with a ghastly laugh. Pensée knelt too, and they gathered the scattered necklace between them. "Dear me! I was never more surprised--never; and yet I cannot think why I am surprised. He is very handsome. Any woman would like him."
"I wonder," said Pensée, full of thoughts.
Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should be missing. But they were all there, and she tied them up in her handkerchief.
"Pensée," she said, presently. "I will tell his name after all, because you have been so frank with me. The one I ... love is Beauclerk Reckage." As she uttered this lie, she cast down her eyes and blushed to the very heart.
"Beauclerk!" exclaimed Pensée, in amazement. "Then there _is_ some hope after all! There is, there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to Agnes Carillon, of course. But all the same...."
The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had heard a distant murmuring but not their words, now, as their animation failed, came in.
"My little girl," said he, "has been moping. I am very glad that you called ... very glad indeed. And Sara, my darling...."
"Have you asked Pensée the name of that extremely pretty song she sang for us when we all dined together at Lord Wight's? You remember the evening?"
But Sara, with a wail, fled away. Pensée caught a glimpse of her white, agonised countenance as she rushed past them, moaning, to her own room.
"This is dreadful," said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed--"dreadful!"