From time to time the Baroness said she hoped that Sabina had good news of her mother, but showed no curiosity in the matter, and the girl always answered that she believed her mother to be quite well.  Indeed she did believe it, for she supposed that if the Princess were ill some one would let her know.  She wrote stiff little letters herself, every Sunday morning, and addressed them to her uncle’s place in Poland; but no one ever took the least notice of these conscientious communications, and she wondered why she sent them, after all.  It was a remnant of the sense of duty to her parents instilled into her in the convent, and she could not help clinging to it still, from habit.

She had a few friends of her own age, and they came to see her now and then.  They were mostly companions of her recent convent days, and they asked her many questions, to most of which she had no answer.  She noticed that they looked surprised, but they were well brought up girls, and kept their reflections to themselves, until they were at home.

The Conti had fewer near relations than most Roman families, for of late they had not been numerous.  The Prince’s only sister had died childless, the dowager Princess was a Pole, and her daughter-in-law was a Tuscan.  Sabina and her generation had therefore no first cousins; and those who were one degree or more removed were glad that they had not been asked to take charge of the girl after the catastrophe.  It would have been all very well merely to give her a room and a place at table, but the older ones shook their heads, and said that before long the Baroness Volterra would have to dress her too, and give her pocket-money.  Her good-for-nothing brother would not do anything for her, if he could, and the Princess, who was amusing herself in Poland, if not in Paris, was capable of forgetting her existence for a year at a time.

All these things greatly enhanced the outward and visible merit of the Volterra couple, but made Sabina’s position daily less endurable.  So the Baroness laid up treasures in heaven while Sabina unwillingly stored trouble on earth.

She was proud, to begin with.  It was bad enough to have been ordered by her mother to accept the hospitality of people she did not like, but it was almost unbearable to realize by degrees that she was living on their effusive charity.  If she had been as vain as she was proud, she would probably have left their house to take refuge in her sister’s convent, for her vanity could not have borne the certainty that all society knew what her position was.  The foundation of pride is the wish to respect oneself, whatever others may think; the mainspring of vanity is the craving for the admiration of others, no matter at what cost to one’s self-respect.  In the Conti family these qualities and defects were unevenly distributed, for while pride seemed to have been left out in the character of Sabina’s brother, who was vain and arrogant, she herself was as unspoilt by vanity as she was plentifully supplied with the characteristic which is said to have caused Lucifer’s fall, but which has been the mainstay of many a greatly-tempted man and woman.  Perhaps what is a fault in angels may seem to be almost a virtue in humanity, compared with the meanness of worse failings.