She is Titania in alabaster. Marble is too strong. At first, I
thought it might be marble. I have changed my mind since. I suppose you
know she will act in this comedy with Castrillon at the d'Alchingens?"

"So Disraeli has told me. Did you come to tell me that, also?"

She coloured, but met his angry glance without flinching. "Now," she
thought, "he is going to show temper."

"I came to tell you that, also," she repeated. "Pensee is opposed to the
whole scheme. Mrs. Parflete stamped her very beautiful foot, and said,
'I go.' Do you approve?"

"I am to meet Castrillon to-night at the Prince d'Alchingen's," he
answered, evading her question.

"How you hate him!"

"What makes you think so?"

"I know your face. I never saw any love there for anybody, but just then
there was a look of hate."

"You are quite right. I do hate him."

"You are actually trembling at the mention of his name. Then you have
feelings, after all." She clapped her hands, and leaving her chair
walked toward him.

"Never hate me, will you?" she said, touching his arm. "Promise me that
you will never hate me. Like me as much as you can."

At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and the landlord,
carrying a few letters on a salver, entered the room. Sara pulled down
her veil--a foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. Orange
thanked the man for the letters and threw them on the table. The
landlord, with a studied air of discretion, which was the more insulting
for its very slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out.

"Does he always bring your letters upstairs?" she asked.

"As a rule--no," said Orange.

"Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see me--what impudence! I am
beginning to realise what one has to expect if one--if one takes an
unconventional step."

Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then she
covered her face with her hands.

"Every courageous--every disinterested act is unconventional," said
Robert; "you are tired out--that's all."

"You see," she answered, with a note of harsh sadness in her voice, "I
have had a strange day. The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. I
feel a kind of apprehensiveness and terror--yes, terror, which I cannot
describe. It may be my nerves, it may be fancy. But I am too conscious
of being alive. Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. This day
has been one long over-emphasis. Look at my hand: how it trembles!
Beauclerk called me a witch. Certainly,