The day after the wedding, when the bridal pair had left Paris by one train and the bride’s mother and younger sisters by another, when Harold had gone off to attend to some business which formed one part of the reason of his coming to Paris, Martha, having now full use of the carriage, ordered it to wait outside the atelier while she went in to see if the princess was there. It confirmed a suspicion which had somehow got into her head when she found that her friend was absent. With scarcely a glance at the model and the busy students, she withdrew, and, reËntering her carriage, ordered her coachman to drive her to the Rue Presbourg.

Upon going at once to her friend’s private rooms, she found her lying on the lounge in semi-darkness, as she had seen her once before; but now there were no tears, nor any trace of them.

“I have a real headache this time,” she said, as she stretched out her hand, with a smile. “It’s better than it was, though, and I am glad to see you.”

“Were you at the wedding?” was Martha’s first eager question, when she had kissed her friend and taken the seat beside her.

“Yes, I was there,” said the other promptly. “How charming you looked in your bridesmaid’s dress, and how handsome your Alice really is!”

She wondered what Martha would think if she knew the truth—that she had seen Alice and herself scarcely more than if they had not been present!

“And you saw Harold?” was the next question.

“Yes; I saw your paragon of paragons,” was the answer, spoken in light and well-guarded tones.

Martha’s face fell. Still, she was too earnest to be lightly rebuffed, so she went on:

“And what did you think of him? Now, Sonia, don’t tease me! You know how important it is to me—what you think of Harold. Do tell me, dear, and don’t laugh.”

In response to this earnest appeal the princess’s face grew grave. She did not look at Martha, however, but occupied herself with twisting up her loosened hair as she answered:

“I thought him handsome, dear. I thought his face both strong and clever. I could understand you loving him so much. I could see nothing in his face, or figure, or expression, that looked in the least degree unworthy of the great ideal that you have of him. There! Does that satisfy you?”

She caught Martha’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, and for a second she met her gaze full. Then she got up hastily, and walked across the room.

When she presently came back, she had the air of a person thoroughly on guard, and conscious of her ability to cope with circumstances. She did not return to the lounge, but sat upright on a stiff sofa which admitted of no lounging. Martha, glowing with pleasure at her heroine’s praise of her hero, was determined to follow up her advantage.

“Oh, you will take back what you said, and let me bring him to see you—won’t you, Sonia?” she said ardently. “We are going to have the apartment to ourselves for weeks, Harold and I; and we three could have such ideal times—such little dinners and jaunts to the play! As things are with you both, I think there is all the more reason for you to know each other. You could be such friends! I should think a real man friend would be such a comfort to you. You seem made for that sort of camaraderie, as well as for love. And what a comfort the friendship of such a woman as you would be to Harold! I feel myself at times so inadequate to him, and I have the very same feeling, sometimes, with you. I will confess to you, Sonia, that I did have a hope once, even though you are a princess and he just a simple American gentleman, that you and Harold might some time, after years, come to be something to each other; but I have given that up. I see that it is impossible to either of you. I had a talk with Harold yesterday, and he is as much protected by his past as you are by yours. So there could be no danger to either in such an intercourse. Oh, Sonia, won’t you consent to it?”

There was great gravity and deliberation in the tones of the princess as she answered impressively:

“Now, Martha, listen to me. I want you to put that idea out of your head at once and forever. You will do this, I am sure, when I tell you how it distresses me and embarrasses our whole intercourse. You are quite mistaken in supposing that I have either a need or a desire for the friendship of any man alive. You really must believe me when I tell you that I am sick of men. One reason that I have so entirely given up society is that they fret me so with their offers of what you and they call friendship. I did have men friends once, and I know what they amount to. While I was married, my—I mean the man I married—was my friend. Since I lost him I have never had another.”

As she ended, she rose and walked across the room. Her tone was so decided that Martha felt that she could say nothing more, and so, with a sigh, she gave up this dream too.

In a moment the princess returned, bringing two photographs, which she had taken from a drawer.

“I have been looking at some old pictures this morning,” she said. “This one was taken when, as a girl, I was presented at the English court.”

She was silent while Martha was uttering her glowing words of praise, as she looked at the photograph of the beautiful young girl in her white court-dress with plumes and veil; and then she put the other into her hand, saying quietly:

“This was taken in my wedding-dress, a few days after my marriage.”

Her manner indicated a controlled excitement, but she was quite unprepared for the effect that this photograph had upon Martha. The girl fixed her eyes upon it with a sort of greedy delight, and while she drew in her breath with thick, short respirations, the hand that held the picture trembled.

“I can see it all!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Sonia, were you ever really as happy as that? What were you looking at, with your head turned in that eager way?”

“Yes, I was a Happy Princess once, my dear. But you are a wonderful creature, Martha! No one but you ever thought to ask that question, so I have been saved the embarrassment of explaining. Since you have asked me, I will tell you that I was looking at my husband. While the photographer was posing me in various ways, my husband was waiting for me. He was supposed to be out

of sight, but I heard a newspaper rustle, and looked quickly around, and caught a glimpse of him, between two screens, seated quietly and unconsciously reading the paper. One of those great rushes of passionate tenderness which the sight of the man she loves can sometimes bring to a woman’s heart came over me. At that moment the photographer got the instantaneous impression. I don’t know why I should tell you all this, except that you saw it all there. To other people there never seemed any special significance in the picture.”

She reached out her hand to take back the photographs, but Martha handed her only the first.

“Oh, Sonia, let me keep this!” she begged. “It is such delight to me to look at it!”

“No, dear; I couldn’t. No one but myself should ever see that picture. I ought not perhaps to have shown it to you. It was just an impulse. Promise never to speak of either of these pictures—not even to me. You never will?”

“Never,” said Martha, sadly, as she gave the picture up. Her friend took it, and, without glancing at it, locked it away in a drawer.

When she came back her whole manner had changed. She began at once to talk about her work at the atelier, and told Martha that Étienne wished her to enter a picture for the Salon. The wedding preparations had kept Martha at home a good deal lately, and the princess had some interesting bits of news to give her. She was very graphic in her account of some of Étienne’s last criticisms, and got into high spirits, in which Martha, somehow, could not entirely take part.

The girl went away at last rather heavy-hearted. This conversation had deprived her of her last hope of bringing the princess and her brother together. She had an engagement with Harold for the afternoon, so she could not go to the atelier; but she promised to meet the princess there in good time next morning.

That afternoon she indulged herself in giving her brother a brief account of her romantic friendship. She did not, however, mention the name by which the princess was known to her, or any but the external facts in the case.

As she had foreseen, her brother made no objection to the intercourse, and told her she had been very wise to keep the whole thing to herself. He did not seem in the least surprised that the princess refused to make his acquaintance, and explained it to Martha by saying that she was probably an independent and self-willed young woman, who was disposed to suit only herself in the matter of friends; but that this was not inconsistent with a certain regard for conventionalities, and it was probable that she did not care to bother with her family, or even to take the trouble to find out anything about them. Martha felt that her brother was moderately interested in the matter because of its relation to herself; but in spite of all her enthusiasm she could not feel that she had inspired him with any special interest in the princess, or any appreciably greater desire to make her acquaintance than she had shown to make his.