rstood him. He
wasn't all for self--as many thought. But his heart wanted touching. If
you could touch his heart, a kinder gentleman didn't live. And if it was
my last breath, I'd call him the best of the lot--in spite of his
tantrums, and his changeableness, and his haughty way sometimes. Mark my
words, the glory of Almouth dies with him. Mr. Hercy will bring us down
to rack and ruin. O, sir, I'm glad I'm old. I never want to see the
sorrow that is sure to come to Almouth."

But Orange was not thinking about the house of Almouth, or its fate. His
thoughts were with the soul of the young man who had enjoyed life so
well, and made so many plans, and cherished so many worldly hopes--of
the young man who had existed apparently to indulge his own will, spend
money, kill time, and fulfil a few rather showy responsibilities. And
yet what Robert remembered best was his laugh. He could hear it still.

CHAPTER XXV

Prince d'Alchingen had been much put out of conceit with himself by
disappointment. The small dinner which he had carefully arranged for
Orange and Castrillon took place, but Orange was not present. He had
sent word from Almouth House that he could not leave Lord Reckage. His
Excellency, therefore, was thoroughly annoyed, and Castrillon's
persiflage fell heavily upon his ears. He tried to think that this
nobleman's vivacity made him appear flippant, whereas he was, in
reality, a Don Juan of the classic type--unscrupulous, calculating, and
damnable. When he remarked that it was _grande folie de vouloir d'etre
sage avec une sagesse impossible_, the Prince's spirits rose--only to
fall again, however, at a later pronouncement from the same lips to the
effect that virtuous women always brought tears to his eyes.

"They tell me," said the Prince, weighing each syllable with great
deliberation (they carried on their conversation principally in French
and Spanish) "that Mrs. Parflete is an admirable actress."

Castrillon kissed the tips of his fingers to the air, and ejaculated:
"Adorable!"

"Does she resemble, in any way, I wonder, her good mother, Madame
Duboc?"

No, she had her own style--although she was coquettish enough. And
pretty? Delicious.

"This is better," thought his Excellency, "much better. And do you
think," he asked, aloud, "that she cares at all for Orange?"

Castrillon smirked and put his hand, half instinctively, to his
breast-pocket. D'Alchingen inferred, from this quick movement, that