“They are just about. If I were a real beggar girl, I think I should take poison.” “Heaven forbid!” “As it is, I’m going back to my own house to-morrow.” “To Fairy Sky?” “Oh no! Here. You can send them word to-night. There are one or two more interesting people this side of Lucifram than there were a month or two ago. I shall stay here a little longer.” “I’ll be glad to be back again, Princess.” “So shall I. I consider the life of the poor unendurable. Or perhaps it is you’re flattered so idiotically when you’re rich that you can’t stand the other thing after. I know quite well, if all these people had known who I was in reality, they would have treated me quite differently. I always thought women were stupid enough, but _men_, oh! defend me from them. They’re ten times worse.” “Yes. I always think the best men die young like Timothy, Princess.” “Timothy?” and there was a strange recklessness and rage in her voice and eyes. “Don’t mention him to me, Alice--never again. When--when he was dying he turned away from me--on his side--away to the doctor. He had forgotten me. I wanted him to turn my way.” “I’d be more inclined to blame the doctor than him.” A queer vivid light flashed into Marigold’s wonderful eyes. “I don’t blame the doctor. He is an ignorant quack, who wants teaching manners.” And then she laughed with a little panting breath. “Did you see those ugly marks on my neck?--that’s the doctor. Did you see me lying in a heap upon yonder floor?--that’s the doctor. Did you see that picture gone?--that’s the doctor. Did you see Timothy lying dead?--that’s the doctor too. He wouldn’t let him live--wouldn’t even prolong his life by sending him away--when once I asked him to.” “Ah! he’s a bad lot,” said Alice mournfully; “a bad, bad lot. How did he make those ugly marks upon your neck?” “Finger-nails. He shook me like a rat, just because I wanted Timothy.” She was standing there, her fingers clasped, more like a child than a woman--exquisitely beautiful in this recklessness--something that made Alice tremble, because she knew that at the back of it there was nothing but smarting, unendurable pain. But she knew it would be dangerous to offer sympathy, so, like the sensible woman she was, she began stirring round, making the tea. “I met Mr St Armand to-night as I came across the square.” “Oh! he isn’t _Mr_ St Armand. He is Saint Armand. That’s his title--just in the same way that---- Well, go on, Alice. What did he say to you?” “Nothing! He asked me how you were, Princess; and I said the little boy you were nursing was dead, and you felt it.”