“You don't understand,” said Sara. “You are right because you haven't heard enough. Mr. Orange is going to give a lecture on Church History, and Lord Reckage has promised to be chairman. They will hold the meeting at St. James's Hall, and I am sure it will be most interesting. More I cannot tell you, because they have gone no further in their plans.”
But misfortune had entered the room, and that wayfarer—once admitted—asserts her ill-will without let or hindrance. Agnes, barely touching her tea, rose to say goodbye. Lord Garrow and Reckage escorted her to the hall. They helped her into a carriage (lent her for that afternoon by the Duchess of Pevensey), and she drove away, trembling, tearful, afraid, not reminding her fiancé that they were to meet at dinner in the evening. He walked homeward, but not until he had decided, after much hesitation, that he could scarcely go back again to Lady Sara. His thoughts were fixed now to one refrain—“I must have my freedom.” Freedom, at that moment, had a mocking, lovely face, the darkest blue eyes, and quantities of long, black hair. She wore a violet dress, her hands were white, and she talked like a Blue Book set to music by Beethoven. Yes, he must have his freedom and live.
Sara and Orange, meanwhile, left alone in the drawing-room, were exchanging interrogatory glances, “What do you think now?” she asked; “do you pretend to believe that Agnes and Beauclerk can make each other even moderately contented?”
“Then you are to blame.”
A flush swept over her face. She looked bitter reproaches, but she made no answer.
“And why are you so interested in Anglican Orders?” he continued. “How is it that you know your subject so well? For you do know it well.”
“Catholic questions always appeal to me,” she said coldly. “I have no religion, but I come from a race of politicians and soldiers—on my mother's side. I must have an intellectual pied à terre, and I require a good cause. Party politics are too parochial for me. So I am on the side of the Vatican.”
“La reine s'amuse,” said Robert. “Is that all?”
“Yes, that's all.”
She turned over the music on her writing-table and hummed some bars from the Kyrie of Mozart's Twelfth Mass.