d understand. I must show them all that I mean
what I say."

"But Castrillon is a wicked wretch--a libertine."

"We have already acted together in this very piece at Madrid. Much
depends on my playing well next Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent,
and, in such a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is no
worse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his associates are."

"You can't know what you are saying," answered Pensee. "You will be so
miserable when you find you have been madly obstinate. It is very hard,
in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself in
opposition to certain prejudices."

"Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?" asked Brigit.

"What a question!" said Pensee; "of course they are most exclusive."

"Then if they are quite willing that their daughter Clementine should
marry Castrillon, surely he may play the Chevalier to my Marquise."

"I don't think, Pensee," put in Sara, "that Castrillon is exactly
tabooed. In fact, one meets him everywhere in Paris, and, beyond a
doubt, the Fortinbrases and the Huxaters and the Kentons made a great
fuss over him last season. But do you _like_ him?" she said, suddenly
turning to Brigit.

The question was skilful.

"I don't take him seriously," answered Brigit; "he has the great science
of _l'excellent ton dans le mauvis ton_. You would say--'he is vulgar in
the right way.' I feel sure he never deceived women. They may have been
foolish but they must have been frail before they met him! He can be
ridiculous in five languages, but he cannot be sincere in one of them.
As for his wickedness, one must have more than bad intentions; one must
have the circumstances. I have nothing to fear from M. de Castrillon. He
knows me perfectly well."

"I am simply wretched about you," said Pensee; "of your future I dare
not think. I try to be _sympathique_, and your difficulties come very
home to me because I have had such great sorrows myself. But I have
little hopes of doing any good while you are so self-willed."

"Dearest," exclaimed Brigit: "trust me!"

"My child, you are 'wiser in your own eyes than seven men that can
render a reason.' I implore you to abandon this mad scheme; I implore
you to abandon these wrong--these dangerous ideas of the stage. I know
how much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything, but I
think you ought to listen to me."

Brigit, with a sparkling glance at Sara, stroked Pensee's ch