“Truly,” answered Michelle, “I would not have it any other way.” She was faintly annoyed with Roger that he had not waited a little for her to make this gracious concession, which she fully meant to do, and she spoke with something of the princess in her voice. “I can no longer be the Princess d’Orantia, and that I should be the Princess of Orlamunde is not to be thought of. And I meant, had you given me time and occasion to tell you, that—that—”
“To be ‘Madam Roger Egremont,’” said Roger, finishing the sentence for her, and regretting the mistake he had made, “is to be well enough named. Is that what you would say?”
“Yes,” replied Michelle, softly.
“But,” continued Roger, taking her hand, “you will ever be a princess to me.”
At last it was time to go,—that is, the sisters were walking in the garden for their recreation. Roger, when he rose, took from his breast-pocket a little case, which he handed to Michelle. It was a miniature of himself which he had caused to be made for her. It was set round with fine pearls. While Michelle’s eyes were fixed with delight upon the miniature, Roger said: “Those pearls are part of a string which belonged to my mother. I found them in Hugo Stein’s strong-box at Egremont, and I wished that you should have something which had been my mother’s.” Then, with an elaborate air of making a clean breast of it, he took out a little brooch, small, but very beautiful, of brilliants.
“This,” he said, “is for Bess Lukens. It too belonged to my mother,—and I thought, considering Bess Lukens’s services to my family, it would be a recognition which the poor girl would value, if I gave her something which had an association,—a sentiment, a—”
Roger stopped short. His look and manner were as nearly awkward as a graceful man’s could be,—but the expression of Michelle’s eyes was a little disconcerting. He always appeared ridiculous in his own eyes whenever he spoke of one of those two women to the other.
“It is very pretty,” was Michelle’s reply. “And, as you say, she deserves something at your hands. Was it not noble of her to go to England when Father Egremont was imprisoned?”
Her words were warm, but there was that curious coldness in her eyes with which a woman praises a suspected rival.
“She is one of the finest creatures in the world,” cried Roger, with great sincerity,—and Michelle agreed with him promptly, her lips smiling, but her eyes very cold and unmoved. She had ever paid Bess Lukens the compliment of being jealous of her.