Florence said nothing, but she took her fan in both her hands and bent it slowly, so that the ivory sticks snapped one by one with a succession of sharp reports. Then she threw it down, and set her heel upon it, and ground it into the path. There was something inexpressibly cruel about the way in which she crushed the pretty toy; the action seemed to be the appropriate and unconscious outcome of some mental process, and it is an odd proof of the excitement under which they were both labouring, that at the time the gentle-minded Dorothy saw nothing strange about it. At that moment the two girls were nearer each other than they had ever been before, or would ever be again; the common stroke of a misfortune for a moment welded their opposite natures into one. At that moment, too, they knew that they both loved the same man; before, they had guessed it, and had not liked each other the better for it, but now that was forgotten. “I think, Florence,” said Dorothy, with a little tremor in her voice, “that we are ‘out of the running,’ as Jeremy says. Your sister is too beautiful for any woman to stand against her. He has fallen in love with her.” “Yes,” said Florence, with a bitter laugh and a flash of her brown eyes; “his highness has thrown a handkerchief to a new favourite, and she has lost no time in picking it up. We always used to call her ‘the sultana;’” and she laughed again. “Perhaps,” suggested Dorothy, “she only means to flirt with him a little; I hoped that Jeremy——” “Jeremy! what chance has Jeremy against him? Ernest would make more way with a woman in two hours than Jeremy would in two years. We all love to be taken by storm, my dear. Do not deceive yourself. Flirt with him! she will love him wildly in a week. Who could help loving him?” she added, with a thrill of her rich voice. Dorothy said nothing: she knew that it was true, and they walked a few steps in silence. “Dorothy, do you know what generally happens to favourites and sultanas?” “No.” “They come to a bad end; the other ladies of the harem murder them, you know.” “What _do_ you mean?” “Don’t be frightened; I don’t mean that we should murder my dear sister. What I do mean is, that I think we might manage to depose her. Will you help me if I find a plan?” Dorothy’s better self had had time to assert itself by now; the influence of the blow was over, and their natures were wide apart again. “No, certainly not,” she answered. “Ernest has a right to choose for himself, and if your sister gets the better of us, it is the fortune of war, that is all—though certainly the fight is not quite fair,” she added, as she thought of Eva’s radiant loveliness. Florence glanced at her contemptuously. “You have no spirit,” she said. “What do you mean to do?” “Mean to do!” she answered, swinging round and facing her; “I mean to have my revenge.” “O Florence, it is wicked to talk so! whom are you going to be revenged on—Ernest? It is not his fault if —if you are fond of him.”