“Oh, he! calling her my ‘niece’ or my ‘daughter’.” (Alice minced the words as it is only fair to Mr Barringcourt to say he never did do.) “But that is the worst of being trained like me in the best houses. You get out of the way of giving cheek when it’s needed.” “Any one could see you have been most admirably trained.” “My word! the old housekeeper at Ellel Palace was a terror to the worst of us.” “Oh! ah! the Princess Marigold has very well disguised herself.” “Holy Serpent! what have I told you?” “Nothing. Nothing at all, my good woman. And, if you have, I am not likely to repeat it. Now I must go. But see--here’s my address. If your mistress is no better to-morrow, send for me, and I’ll provide the very best physicians.” CHAPTER XXI But, when she was gone, St Armand stood under a gas lamp, and leant against the post, and laughed, held his sides with laughing, just as Marigold had done--only from different reasons. Then, when he had laughed, he went off to the Priest’s Palace and his own private apartments, because he and his holiness were not really on the best of terms just then, because the High Priest persisted in sacrificing his inclinations to respectability and habit, and St Armand would have kicked the last two to Jericho--that is, from one planet on to another, you perceive. True, the morning after meeting Marigold, and the bitter jealousy occasioned in Alphonso by St Armand’s conversation of that night, he had gone again with his strange lingering guest into the Temple grounds. But no vision in rags appeared upon the scene. Piqued, as a child might be, after an hour’s wait he insisted on going home. And not all St Armand’s persuasion could get him to repeat his visit to the cottage. It is likewise true the lithe octogenarian had frequently passed through Friar’s Court to try his blandishments upon the lady. But she, as has been said, was passing through those fires invisible to the mortal eye, which he, by long experience, had learnt not to burn his hands upon. “Good fit, this,” said he whimsically to himself; “I wonder when it will pass away? One of these days she’ll feel too good, then the reaction will set in. Meanwhile I must lie cooped up in that wretched hen-roost of a monastery--_waiting_. Of all things I detest, it’s waiting. There’s one thing, though. When I have properly subdued them, I make them wait--to the wretched state of being forgotten.” When Alice left him she hurried home, conscious of being much later than she had any excuse for being. And when she got there, she found that Marigold had lit the lamp, laid the cloth, and set the tea-cups, all to her unutterable surprise. “Why,” said she in amazement, “I thought you were on the brink of high fever?” Marigold smiled. “Oh no! I’m not one of those women with a convenient constitution that breaks down just when things get unendurable.” “Are things unendurable to you, Princess?”