tress. She
never speaks of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room reciting
Marivaux and Moliere. The d'Alchingens have invited her to Hadley next
Saturday. They encourage her theatrical ideas. And why? They wish her to
lose caste. She is an Archduchess, Sara, an Alberian Archduchess. What a
living argument against unequal marriages!"

"Will she go to Hadley?"

"Yes--wholly against my advice. I don't trust Prince d'Alchingen."

"How I wish I could see her!"

"She is in the library now. I will ask her to come down."

Pensee left the room, and Sara paced the floor till she returned.

"She is coming," said Pensee, "be nice to her--for Robert's sake!"

Sara nodded, and both women watched the door till the handle moved, and
Mrs. Parflete entered.

She was dressed in violet silk without ornaments or jewels of any
description. Her face was slightly flushed, and the colour intensified
the pale gold diadem of her blonde hair. The expression--sweet-tempered,
yet a little arrogant--of her countenance and its long oval form bore a
striking resemblance to the early portraits of Marie Antoinette. Her
under-lip had also a slight outward bend, which seemed an encouragement
when she smiled, and contemptuous when she frowned. Her figure--though
too slight even for a girl of seventeen--was extraordinarily graceful,
and, in spite of her height, she was so well proportioned that she did
not appear too tall. Youth showed itself, however, in a certain
childlikeness of demeanour--a mixture of timidity, confidence,
embarrassment, and, if one looked in her face for any sign of the
emotions she had experienced, or the scenes in which she had played no
feeble part, one sought in vain. Gaiety covered the melancholy, almost
sombre depths in her character. And it was the gaiety of her French
mother--petulant, reckless, irresistible, giddy, uncertain. As a child,
dressed up in ribbons and lace, with flowers in her hair, she had been
the chief amusement and plaything of Madame Duboc--to be held on her
lap, perched upon the piano, placed on high cushions in the carriage,
and lifted on the table of the drawing-room, where she entertained a
brilliant, if dissipated company, by her talk, her little songs, her
laughter, her mimicry, and her dancing. She rarely danced now, yet all
the seductive arts of perfect dancing seemed hers by right of birth.
Each movement, each gesture had a peculiar charm, and her dark blue
eyes, the more provocative fo