she shrugged, "for
he belongs to the preaching order. He never goes to France but he gives
the poor Queen such a scolding that her eyes are red for a week. Has
Joseph been trying to set our house in order?"

Discouraged, but more than ever bent on patience, he tried the chord of
vanity, of her love of popularity. The people called her the beautiful
Duchess--why not let history name her the great? But the mention of
history was unfortunate. It reminded her of her lesson-books, and of the
stupid Greeks and Romans, whose dates she could never recall. She hoped
she should never be anything so dull as an historical personage! And
besides, greatness was for the men--it was enough for a princess to be
virtuous. And she looked as edifying as her own epitaph.

He caught this up and tried to make her distinguish between the public
and the private virtues. But the word "responsibility" slipped from him
and he felt her stiffen. This was preaching, and she hated preaching
even more than history. Her attention strayed again and he rallied his
forces in a last appeal. But he knew it was a lost battle: every
argument broke against the close front of her indifference. He was
talking a language she had never learned--it was all as remote from her
as Church Latin. A princess did not need to know Latin. She let her eye
linger suggestively on the clock. It was a fine hunting morning, and she
had meant to kill a stag in the Caccia del Vescovo.

When he began to sum up, and the question narrowed to a direct appeal,
her eyes left the clock and returned to him. Now she was listening. He
pressed on to the matter of retrenchment. Would she join him, would she
help to make the great work possible? At first she seemed hardly to
understand; but as his meaning grew clear to her--"Is the money no
longer ours?" she exclaimed.

He hesitated. "I suppose it is as much ours as ever," he said.

"And how much is that?" she asked impatiently.

"It is ours as a trust for our people."

She stared in honest wonder. These were new signs in her heaven.

"A trust? A trust? I am not sure that I know what that means. Is the
money ours or theirs?"

He hesitated. "In strict honour, it is ours only as long as we spend it
for their benefit."

She turned aside to examine an enamelled patch-box by Van Blarenberghe
which the court jeweller had newly received from Paris. When she raised
her eyes she said: "And if we do not spend it for their benefit--?"

Odo gla