“Then why all this fuss?”
“To avoid more fuss—on a large scale.”
“But I have always heard that Mrs. Parflete has no intention of giving trouble. They say she is an angel.”
“You will find that she would far rather be an Archduchess! Orange may discover that his Beatrice is nearly related to Rahab!”
“Oh, I cannot think you are right.”
“Then you should hear Zeuill and General Prim on the subject. The Marquis of Castrillon is in London. Our friend Parflete will soon be labouring with copious materials for a divorce.”
“How can you assume such horrors?” said Sara.
“The imagination,” said His Excellency, “is always more struck by likelihoods than the reason convinced by the examination of facts! My dear friend, let us survey the position. Orange does not seem to have the most distant idea of making Mrs. Parflete his—his belle amie. Well and good. But ought he, at his age, so handsome, so brilliant, so much a man, to renounce all other women for the sake of a little adventuress? Can nothing be done? If he could have some convincing proof of her treachery, would he not turn to others more beautiful, more worthy——“
“To Lady Fitz Rewes,” said Sara quickly.
“If you like,” replied the Prince, in his gentlest voice.