“The Marquis of Castrillon!” cried Pensée, turning livid; “pray, pray put it off till you have heard from Baron Zeuill. Dear Brigit! for my sake, for Robert's——“
“It is for your sake and Robert's that I have accepted the invitation to Hadley. I wish you would understand. I must show them all that I mean what I say.”
“But Castrillon is a wicked wretch—a libertine.”
“We have already acted together in this very piece at Madrid. Much depends on my playing well next Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent, and, in such a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is no worse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his associates are.”
“You can't know what you are saying,” answered Pensée. “You will be so miserable when you find you have been madly obstinate. It is very hard, in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself in opposition to certain prejudices.”
“Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?” asked Brigit.
“What a question!” said Pensée; “of course they are most exclusive.”
“Then if they are quite willing that their daughter Clementine should marry Castrillon, surely he may play the Chevalier to my Marquise.”
“I don't think, Pensée,” put in Sara, “that Castrillon is exactly tabooed. In fact, one meets him everywhere in Paris, and, beyond a doubt, the Fortinbrases and the Huxaters and the Kentons made a great fuss over him last season. But do you like him?” she said, suddenly turning to Brigit.
The question was skilful.