Sara had recovered from the emotion called forth by Reckage's tragic fate, and she was living now in one of those taciturn reveries which had become more and more habitual with her since the last interview with d'Alchingen. Every force in her passionate, undisciplined soul was concentrated in a wild love for Orange, and every thought of her mind was fixed on the determination to win his affection in return. There were only two real powers in the world, she told herself; these were moral force and money. Money could not affect Robert. But he was susceptible to moral force. She resolved to display such an intrepid spirit, such strength of will, such devotion that Brigit would seem a mere doll in comparison.
“What do you think,” she said, turning to the Princess, “of Mrs. Parflete? Your opinion is worth everything. Orange is infatuated with her. His criticism is therefore useless. The Prince disapproves of her parentage. He is therefore prejudiced. I wish to be charitable. I, therefore, say what I hardly think. Pensée Fitz Rewes is an innocent little fool. She judges all women by herself. You, Princess, are an angel of the world. Your verdict, quickly.”
The Princess paused before she attempted any reply. Then she fixed her deep, grey eyes on Sarah's excited face.
“I like her,” she said, slowly.
“Is that all?”
“I think she is immature for her age, and therefore reckless. She knows everything about sorrow, and very little—at present—about happiness. So she doesn't seem quite human. She shows that indulgence toward others which is perhaps the last degree of contempt for the follies of humanity. Those who take their neighbours seriously are almost invariably severe. Mrs. Parflete, on the contrary, is all good-nature and excuses. I believe she has genius, and I am sure she will have an amazing career.”
The Princess, who had always insisted on a studious rather than an active part in life, was consequently unlike the majority of her sex, who, in the bustle of social engagements, talk without ceasing, letting words take the place of ideas, and phrases serve for sentiments. All that she uttered showed a habit of thought opposed to the common method of drawing-room conversation; she rarely said the expected thing, and never, a welcome one. Sara, therefore, was disappointed at this favourable judgment of Mrs. Parflete. The jealousy which she had been able to control by hoping, in the depths of her heart, that the young actress would prove too light a creature to bind for long any masculine, stirring spirit, now saw some justification for vehemence.
“And what do you think of Robert Orange?” she asked, breathing quickly.
The Princess folded her hands, fixed her eyes again on the young girl, and answered in her usual even tones—