“All men who desire love, deserve it,” said Sara. “The means to this are always, in a manner, certainties, the end is always problematical. But those who want love could never be satisfied with mere welfare—never.”
“You have a right to direct my opinion,” he exclaimed; “where else do I hear such sound good sense? The usual women one meets in our circle are old, ugly, and proud—incapable of conversation with persons of intelligence. My wife,” he added smoothly, “makes this complaint about her lady friends. It is very dull and very sad for her, although she is a saint.”
No conversation or letter was ever exchanged between Sara and the Prince without some emphatic tribute to the sanctity, prudence, and charm of the Princess.
“The dear Princess!” murmured Sara.
“And now,” said His Excellency, drawing his chair an inch nearer, “I must be serious. You have guessed, of course, that I am thinking about Robert Orange and Mrs. Parflete. I stayed at Brookes's till after twelve last night in hopes of seeing Orange. I was discussing him with Lord Reckage.”
“What did Reckage say?”
“Reckage doesn't mind raising a blister, but he won't often tell one what he thinks.”
Sara shivered a little and compressed her lips.
“Reckage is fond of Orange,” she said, “yet there is a certain jealousy.... Formerly, Orange had need of Reckage, and depended on him; now Reckage needs him and depends on Orange. Could he but know it, Orange is the one creature who could pull him through his difficulties with the Bond of Association. A man who has no personal ambition, who desires nothing that any one can give, who fears nothing that any one can do, who lives securely in the presence of God, is a power we must not under-rate.”