"Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are comparing you at every point, in a silent, cold-blooded way, to the bright particular star. I envy you, Pensée; you, at least, were desperately loved by Lionel. But I--never, never was loved--except once." "Who was he?" "He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a genius. But oh, I wasn't old enough to understand him. When he died, I cried for half a day and seven nights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't understand myself either." "Do I know this other one ... the one, now?" "I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all very old ... and he is dead ... or I am dying...." "Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Pensée, "don't say that! You are making a lot of misery for yourself." "Not at all. I am making the most of my one saving grace. There is nothing very nice about me--except that. And he is a man. The only real one among all our friends--the only one for whom I have the least respect. If any woman had his love--how sure, how happy she could be! I could work, and starve, and lay down my life for a man like that. If he had loved me, I think I could have been almost a good woman, a downright good one, a Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. But you see that wasn't to be. And so I am just this----" She looked in the glass and pointed a white finger, loaded with rings of black pearls, at her reflection. "I am just this--a vain, idle fool like all the rest--except you, poor darling." "Why don't you keep up your music?--your wonderful playing? Every one says it is so wonderful. That's a great outlet for emotion. And your languages--why not work an hour a day each at Italian, Spanish, German, and French? That would kill four hours of the day straight off!" "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." "But live for others, dear Sara." "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.