impression in society. You
must go to the d'Alchingens'."

Hadley Lodge was built in the reign of George I. In design it resembles
a little the Vice-Regal Lodge in Dublin; two wings, containing
innumerable small rooms, are connected by corridors leading to the
entrance hall. The chief rooms are in the centre, to which Prince
d'Alchingen himself added a miniature theatre, copied from the one at
Trianon. When Sara arrived, the Prince and Princess were taking tea in
the gallery--an apartment so furnished with screens, sofas,
writing-tables, divans, and arm-chairs that it had become the lounge, as
it were, of the house. Less formal than the saloon, brighter than the
library, and more airy than the boudoir, the Princess spent the greater
part of her day in a favourite corner where she could command a view
from four windows, enjoy the fire, see the best pictures, and hear the
piano pleasantly if any guest chose to play upon it. In person she was
tall and rather gaunt, with high cheek-bones, and very dark hollows
under her eyes. She had the air of a mourning empress, and seriousness
was so natural to her countenance, that, although she could not smile,
and had never been known to laugh, she was not depressing nor was she,
accurately speaking, melancholy. The style of beauty--for she had
beauty--was haggard, of the kind now familiar to all English people from
the paintings of Sir Edward Burne-Jones. In 1869, however, this type was
still highly uncommon and little appreciated. Journals and letters of
the period contain references to "that fright, Princess d'Alchingen," or
"that poor creature who always looks so ill," or "that woman who makes
one think of a corpse." Sara admired the Princess, and surprised all
the fashionable artists of that day by insisting on her paintableness.

"How good of you to come, dear Sara!" she murmured, presenting her
sallow cheek to the young girl with a touch of regal graciousness at
once designed and impulsive; "I should have been lost without you.
Anselm has invited a large party, and, as you know, I cannot talk to
these dear people. I find them too clever, and they find me too stupid.
The world is not willing to give me credit for that which I have done."

"And what is that, dearest?" asked the Prince.

"I married you!" she answered, with a quick flash of humour under her
gravity. It was like the occasional sparkle in granite. "You may smile
at the notion of my living on the reputation of wha