The three women as they faced each other presented a remarkable picture. Pensée, the eldest, who alone knew the lessons of physical pain, had a pathetic grace which made her seem, in comparison with the others--radiant with untried health,--some gentle, plaintive spirit from a sadder sphere. Her clinging blue robe appeared too heavy for the frail body; her fair curls and carefully arranged _chignon_ were too modish for the ethereal yet anxious countenance; the massive wedding-ring seemed too coarse a bond for the almost transparent hand which trembled nervously on the cover of the _Serious Call_. Sara, in black velvet and sable, with ostrich plumes and golden beads, with flashing eyes and a gipsy's flush, with all the self-command of a woman trained for society, living for it and in it, with all the self-assurance of a woman in an unassailable position, handsome, rich, flattered, spoiled, domineering, and unscrupulous, with all the insolence of an egoism which no human force could humiliate and no human antagonist terrify, Sara seemed the one who was destined to succeed superbly in the war of life. Mrs. Parflete--whose courage, determination, and powers of endurance were concealed by a face which might have been made of lovely gauze--seemed less a being than a poetical creation: a portrait by Watteau or Fragonard stepped from its frame, animated by pure fancy, and moving, without sorrow and without labour, through a charmed existence. She made two steps forward when Sara advanced to meet her, holding out both hands and smiling with real kindness at the sight of a delightful apparition which looked too fragile to excite such a fierce emotion as jealousy. "I believe we are to meet at Hadley," said Sara. "I hear you are going to act." "Yes," replied Brigit, with a slight note of irony in her musical voice. "I am going to act." "How charming! And what will you play?" "I play the Marquise in one of Marivaux's comedies." "And who will play the Marquis?" asked Sara. "There is no Marquis," answered Brigit, laughing a little. "But," she added, "there is a Chevalier and a Comte. One of Prince d'Alchingen's attachés will play the Comte. M. de Castrillon will play the part of the Chevalier." "Castrillon!" exclaimed Sara, in amazement. "The Marquis of Castrillon!" cried Pensée, turning livid; "pray, pray put it off till you have heard from Baron Zeuill. Dear Brigit! for my sake, for Robert's----" "It is for your sake and Robert's that I have accepted the invitation to Hadley. I wish you would understand. I must show them all that I mean what I say." "But Castrillon is a wicked wretch--a libertine." "We have already acted together in this very piece at Madrid. Much depends on my playing well next Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent, and, in such a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is no worse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his associates are."