ophocles had made an end of her for ever
when Jocasta hanged herself. One thing, however, was clear: the
Princess had not sought him out with any idea of casting upon him the
spell of a flirtation to make him a sort of posthumous substitute for
his brother. She had faced the light boldly several times in the
course of her visit, so that he had seen the fine lines of middle age
about her mouth and eyes very distinctly, and she had not made any
attempt to show herself off before him, nor to lead him on with
subdued confidences concerning the human affections as she had known
them. He believed that she had come to find out whether he thought
that Giovanni might possibly be alive or not, and he rather liked her
for what seemed to him her frankness and courage, and was
unconsciously flattered, as the best men may be, by her trusting him
so simply.

No doubt it might be true that since the world had put up with her
rather reckless behaviour for over fifteen years, her reputation would
not be lost at this late date by her spending an hour at the rooms of
an officer who was quartered out of town. No doubt, too, that same
reputation was a coat of many colours, on which one small stain more
would scarcely show at all, but she had never been in the habit of
risking spots for nothing. Moreover, it is a curious fact that men are
better pleased at being trusted by a clever woman who has had many
adventures than when an angel of virtue places her good name under
their protection: there is less irksome responsibility in playing
confidant to Lady Jezebel than in being guardian to the impeccable
Lucretia.

If nothing more had happened, the Princess's visit would have had
little or no importance in this story; but as things turned out, the
incident was one of the links in a chain of events which led to a
singularly unexpected and dramatic conclusion, as will before long
clearly appear.

Fate often behaves like a big old lion, when he opens his sleepy eyes
and catches a first sight of you as he lies alone, far out on the
plain. He lifts his tawny head and gazes at you quietly for several
seconds and then lowers it as if not caring what you do. You creep
nearer, cautiously, noiselessly, and holding your breath, till some
faint noise you make rouses his attention again and he takes another
look at you, longer this time and much less lazy, while you stand
motionless. Nevertheless, you are only a man, and not worth killing;
if he is an ol