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.
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