she was seen that day?" asked Sara.

"Not yet. He will know soon enough, never fear."

"Are you sure--quite sure that it was Mrs. Parflete?" suggested the
Princess.

"It must have been she," replied the Prince.

"It must have been she," repeated Sara, mechanically.

The lie seemed to come before she had time to think of it; it tripped
off her tongue as though some will, other than her own, controlled her
speech. But now that the untruth was spoken she determined to abide by
it, so she repeated:--

"It must have been Mrs. Parflete."

"And suppose," said the Princess, "that she is able to prove that she
spent the whole of Wednesday with Lady Fitz Rewes? No one could doubt
the evidence of Lady Fitz Rewes."

D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders.

"In that event--which is unlikely," he said; "M. de Hausee 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
Hausee 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,