"I know what she means, Pensée," said Sara; "she has to show d'Alchingen that her interests are fixed on art--not politics. And, from her point of view, she is right. I must say so, although I don't wish to interfere. And so long as she knows M. de Castrillon, it is better taste to make her first appearance with him than with some strange actor engaged for the occasion. After all, Mario was well known as the Marchese di Candia before he adopted the operatic stage as a profession. As for gossip, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped?" "I do not expect that people's tongues should be stopped," rejoined Pensée. "What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much," said Brigit: "if I vex my friends, I must nevertheless follow my vocation. It was good enough for my mother. I do not apologise for her existence, nor do I offer excuses for my own. She was an actress: I am an actress. She succeeded: I may not succeed. But if you fear for my faith and my character, it would be quite as easy to lose both in the highest society as in the vilest theatres! I foresee mistakes and difficulties. They must come. I shan't have a happy life, dearest Pensée: I don't look for happiness. Why then do you scold me?" "I am not scolding," said Lady Fitz Rewes: "I have never blamed you, never--in my heart. We shall get on better now that we have brought ourselves to speak out. How different it is when one judges for oneself or for another! I do believe in having the courage of one's convictions. But it was my duty to warn you----" "This is all I wanted," exclaimed Brigit; "that we should understand each other and stand close by each other. I am not on the edge of a precipice--I am at the bottom of it already!" Her eyes had grown calm from the mere force of sadness. "You mustn't ask me to look back," she added: "you mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life is out of the question now. I have to learn how to forget." She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensée, and bowed prettily to Sara. "I must get back to my work," she said, and so left them. The two women turned toward each other. "There is no hope for Orange," observed Sara drily: "no man would ever forget her." "He needn't forget her, but----" "Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. I like her. I like all beautiful things--pictures, statues, bronzes, porcelains, and white marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And Orange will love her forever and ever and ever. And when she is dead, he will love her still more!" She threw back her head and laughed--till Pensée laughed also. Then they wished each other goodbye, and parted. CHAPTER XXII