"In that event--which is unlikely," he said; "M. de Hausée will have a bad half-hour with Mrs. Parflete. The idyll will be spoilt for ever, and our pretty tale for angels about a Saint and a little Bohemian will sink to its proper level. It always takes three to make a really edifying Platonic history. The third in this case is the lady who called at Vigo Street. _Dans le combat, il faut marchez sans s'attendrir!_" "Who would live?" murmured the Princess, pressing a martyr's relic which she always wore on a chain round her neck. "Suppose," continued d'Alchingen, enjoying his own cynicism, "that we have a quartette in this instance. Madame has her Castrillon, M. de Hausée has his veiled lady. Each is a pious fraud to the other. Imagine the double current of their thoughts, the deceit, the hypocrisy, the colossal lie behind them both which makes the inspiring truth a fact! It is an anecdote to be told in the Boccaccio manner--gracefully, with humour, with much indulgence ... otherwise, it might be the sort of story they tell in hell." "I am happy to say that I have no imagination," said the Princess; "and now I shall take Sara--who must be tired--to her room." She rose from her seat, and, drawing Sara's arm through hers, walked from the gallery, through the hall, and up the staircase, talking, the while, of a new Romney which the Prince had recently purchased. Sara was now in her own room, but not alone, for her maid was unpacking, and the gown, petticoat, shoes, gloves, and flowers designed for that evening were being spread out upon the bed. The girl was in no humour to enjoy the finery which she had chosen with so much delight. She turned her back upon it all, and, pulling up the blind, gazed moodily out of the window till her maid's preparations were at an end. Romantic trees and a landscape, almost artificial in its prettiness, surrounded Hadley. The sun was setting in a fire, burnishing with enamel tints the long green hills which ranged as a natural fortification across the horizon, shutting out a whole country of flat fields beyond. The moon, in its first quarter, shone out above a distant steeple where the eastern sky, already blue and opalesque, promised the dawn of another day in reparation for the one then dying in scarlet splendour. But to those who are unhappy, to-morrow is a word without significance. Sara stretched out her arms instinctively toward the coming night. She wanted darkness and she wanted sleep--not the stars of the morning, not the joy of noon. What should she do? Her mad love for Orange had reached a desperate point--a point where she realised all too clearly and with bitterness, that, so far from being a source of strength, it was a curse, a malady, a humiliation--driving her into that insatiable desire of solitude where the companionship of dreadful imaginations and gloomy thoughts can rend the soul at their pleasure. As men are sometimes lured toward dangerous