“It must have been she,” repeated Sara, mechanically.
The lie seemed to come before she had time to think of it; it tripped off her tongue as though some will, other than her own, controlled her speech. But now that the untruth was spoken she determined to abide by it, so she repeated:—
“It must have been Mrs. Parflete.”
“And suppose,” said the Princess, “that she is able to prove that she spent the whole of Wednesday with Lady Fitz Rewes? No one could doubt the evidence of Lady Fitz Rewes.”
D'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders.
“In that event—which is unlikely,” he said; “M. de Hausée will have a bad half-hour with Mrs. Parflete. The idyll will be spoilt for ever, and our pretty tale for angels about a Saint and a little Bohemian will sink to its proper level. It always takes three to make a really edifying Platonic history. The third in this case is the lady who called at Vigo Street. Dans le combat, il faut marchez sans s'attendrir!”
“Who would live?” murmured the Princess, pressing a martyr's relic which she always wore on a chain round her neck.
“Suppose,” continued d'Alchingen, enjoying his own cynicism, “that we have a quartette in this instance. Madame has her Castrillon, M. de Hausée has his veiled lady. Each is a pious fraud to the other. Imagine the double current of their thoughts, the deceit, the hypocrisy, the colossal lie behind them both which makes the inspiring truth a fact! It is an anecdote to be told in the Boccaccio manner—gracefully, with humour, with much indulgence ... otherwise, it might be the sort of story they tell in hell.”
“I am happy to say that I have no imagination,” said the Princess; “and now I shall take Sara—who must be tired—to her room.”