Marigold studied him. Where had all the old infatuation vanished? All that exuberance of spirits that made her see something exceptional in everything he did and said? “I can’t,” she said to herself. “It is too much fag--going acting through life.” And then her eyes stole across again to the dark figure opposite--and the feeling of fag vanished. So, when the service was over, it was Marigold who, having prayed no prayer at all, rose to her feet with a quiet face and beating heart. She took her long gold-handled umbrella, and gathered up her silken trailing skirts with a quiet grace that was the admiration of many watching--for on Lucifram half the people went to Church to see the other half, and the other half mostly to see each other. And stepping down from the pew, her eyes came straight to the eyes of Mr Barringcourt. It was the first time he knew her to be in the Church, and, for the first instant, though he looked at her with interest, he did not recognise her. And even then his expression was more that of incredulous surprise than recognition. But Marigold was more prepared; and though every joint in her body felt loose and powerless, she walked on down the aisle without showing any signs of it at all. But on the steps, before entering her carriage, she was accosted by St Armand. “Good-morning, Princess. What delightful weather we are having! It is almost a pity there are such things as sermons, with the sun shining like this.” “Oh! I liked the sermon very well. His holiness has such a wonderful delivery; it is a pleasure to listen to him.” Thus she spoke to the little man in the old sweet voice grown sweeter, but her thoughts were all with the taller one who stood waiting, standing to one side. “You do not know Mr Barringcourt,” said he, keeping all the maliciousness out of his voice, and speaking only with politeness. “The Princess Marigold of--of--Ellel.” A strange, deep colour, that left him unusually pale, flushed into Mr Barringcourt’s face, and Marigold, who had always found him so easily self-controlled and self-assured, felt a certain pleasure in it. Yet she gave no signs of it, but inclined her head very coldly, and just as coldly he returned her salutation, and in the silence that followed she entered the carriage. It was St Armand who closed the door, and to him her last glance was directed, and she smiled as they rolled away. And then Mr Barringcourt turned to him--his hands deep in his pockets. “Is that--is that the beggar girl?” “No--it’s the Princess.” “Is it the beggar girl, St Armand?” “You know as much about that as I. Looks very like her, I should say.” “And have you known this all along?” “Known what?” “Who she is.” “No, but I’ve _guessed_ at it. I possess a marvellous intuition, you know. But you yourself, surely you have guessed at it too?” “No. By the Holy Serpent, no!” “Did you seriously take her for a beggar girl?” “I took her for what she said she was--what she acted up to.”