ave been away so long," said Garrow fussily, "that you have
forgotten our prejudices. Orange himself, to begin with, has something
mysterious in his origin. They say he is French--related to the old
French aristocracy; but the less one says in England about foreign
pedigrees the better. All that of itself is against him, and Mrs.
Orange, it seems, is more or less French, or Austrian, too. We can't
help regarding them as foreigners, and I always distrust foreigners in
politics. Why should they care for England? I ask myself."

"Why, indeed?" said Harding, with irony.

"Have I made myself clearer?" asked Garrow. "I can afford to speak. My
own wife was a Russian. But I was not in political life, and she was an
Ambassador's daughter."

"You think you would feel more sure of Orange's patriotic instinct if he
had chosen an Englishwoman?" said Reckage.

"I am bound to say that he would have shown discretion in settling down
with one of our simple-hearted Saxon girls."

"And who was Mrs. Orange before she married Orange?" asked Harding.

"A widow--a Mrs. Parflete," said Garrow.

"Parflete!" exclaimed Harding. "Mrs. Parflete! But I have met her. She
married Wrexham Parflete, an extraordinary creature. He lived for years
with the Archduke Charles of Alberia. People used to say that Mrs.
Parflete was the Archduke's daughter. I ran across Parflete the other
day in Sicily."

"But he is dead," said Pensee, much agitated; "he drowned himself."

"I cannot help that," repeated Sir Piers. "I met him last week, and he
beat me at ecarte."

"Then it is not the same man," said Reckage, "quite obviously."

"Wrexham Parflete had a wife; I heard her sing at a dinner-party in
Madrid. She was living with the Countess Des Escas; there was a row and
a duel on her account. I never forget names or faces."

"But this looks serious," said Reckage. "Do you quite understand? It's
the sort of thing one hardly dares to think. That is to say if you mean
what I mean. The marriage can't be legal."

The two women turned pale and looked away from each other.

"I mean as much or as little as you like," said Harding. "But Parflete
was alive last Monday."

"But bigamy is so vulgar," observed Lord Garrow. "You must be mistaken.
It is too dreadful!"

"Dreadful, indeed! And a great piece of folly into the bargain. It is
selling the bear's skin before you have killed the bear."

Lady Fitz Rewes glanced piteously at the three men and wrung her hands