HE paid his visit of digestion as soon as, with any sort of countenance, he could—he paid it the next afternoon; and when he had gone, Pontycroft accused Ruth of having “flirted outrageously” with him.

Ruth, her head high, repudiated the charge with a great show of resentment. “Flirted? I was civil to him because he is a friend of yours. If you call that flirting, I shall know how to treat him the next time we meet.”

“Brava!” applauded Ponty, gently clapping his hands. Then he knotted their bony fingers round his knees, leaned back lazily, and surveyed her with laughing eyes. “Beauty angered, Innocence righteously indignant! You draw yourself up to the full height of your commanding figure in quite the classic style; your glances flash like fierce Belinda's, when she flew upon the Baron; and I never saw anything so haughty as the elevated perk of your pretty little nosebud. But

How say you? O my dove——

let us not come to blows about a word. I don't know what recondite meanings you may attach to 'flirting'; but when a young woman hangs upon a man's accents, as if his lips were bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair, and responds with her own most animated conversation, and makes her very handsomest eyes at him, and falls one by one into all her most becoming poses, and appears rapt into oblivion of the presence of other people—flirting is what ordinary dictionary-fed English folk call it.”

And he gave his head a jerk of satisfaction, as one whose theorem was driven home.

Ruth tittered—a titter that was an admission of the impeachment. “Well? What would you have?” she asked, with a play of the eyebrows. “I take it for granted that you haven't produced this young man without a purpose, and I have never known you to produce any young man for any purpose except one. So the more briskly I lead him on, the sooner will he come to—to what, if I am not mistaken”—she tilted her chin at an angle of inquiry—“dictionary-fed English folk call the scratch.”

Pontycroft gave his head a shake of disapproval. “No, no; Bertram is too good a chap to be trifled with,” he seriously protested. “You shouldn't lead him on at all, if you mean in the end, according to what seems your incorrigible habit, to put him off.” Ruth's eyebrows arched themselves in an expression of simplicity surprised.

“Why should you suppose that I mean anything of the sort?”

Pontycroft studied her with a frown. “You unconscionable little pickle! Do you mean that you would accept him?”

“I don't know,” she answered slowly, reflecting. “He's a very personable person. And he's a prince—which, of course, rather dazzles my democratic fancy. And I suppose he's well enough off not to be after a poor girl merely for her money. And—well—on the whole—don't you see?—well—perhaps a poor girl might go further and fare worse.”

She pointed her stammering conclusion by a drop of the eyelids and a tiny wriggle of the shoulders.

“In fact, when you said you would die a bachelor, you never thought you would live to be married,” Pontycroft commented, making a face, slightly wry, the intention of which wasn't clear. He felt about his pockets for his cigarette case, lighted a cigarette, and smoked half an inch of it in silence. “At any rate,” he went on, “here's news for your friends. And what—by the by—what about deathless Aphrodite? 'The only man you ever really cared for'—what becomes of that poor devil?”

A light kindled in Ruth's eyes; not an entirely friendly light; a light that seemed to threaten. But all she said was, “How do you know that that poor devil isn't Bertram Bertrandoni himself?”

The gesture with which Pontycroft flicked the ash from his cigarette proclaimed him a bird not to be caught with chaff.

“Gammon,” he said. “You'd never seen him.”

“Never seen him?” retorted Ruth, her face astonished and reproachful. “You are forgetting Venice. Why shouldn't I have lost my young affections to him that night at Venice? You haven't a notion how romantic it all was, with the moonlight and everything, and Lucilla quoting Byron, and then Astyanax, in a panama hat, dashing to our assistance like a knight out of a legend. Isn't it almost a matter of obligation for distressed females to fall in love with the knights who dash to their assistance.”

“Hruff,” growled Pontycroft, smoking, “why do you waste these pearls of sophistry on me?”

Ruth laughed.

“All right,” she unblushingly owned up. “The only man I've ever seriously cared for isn't Bertrando Bertrandoni. But what then? Let us look at it as men of the world. What has that poor devil got to do with the question of my marriage? You yourself told me that he was the last man alive I should think of leading to the altar. You said the persons we care for in our calf-period are always the wrong persons. And what some people say carries double weight, because”—that not entirely friendly light flickered again in her eyes for a second—“because they teach by example as well as precept.”

And of course the words weren't out of her mouth before she regretted them.

Pontycroft said nothing, made no sign. It may be that his sun-burned skin flushed a little, that the lines of his forehead wavered. He sat with his homely face turned towards Florence, and appeared to be considering the effect of his cigarette-smoke on the view.

Ruth waited, and the interval seemed long. She looked guilty, she looked frightened, her eyes downcast, her lips parted, a conscious culprit, bowing her head to receive the blow she had provoked. But no blow fell. She waited as long as flesh and blood could stand the suspense. At last she sprang up.

“Oh,” she cried wildly, “why don't you crush me? Why don't you tell me I'm a beast? Why don't you tell me you despise me—loathe me—for being—for being such a cad? Oh, Harry, I am so sorry.”

She stood before him with tight-clasped hands, her whole form rigid in an anguish of contrition. To have taunted him with a thing for which she should have greatly pitied him, a secret she had no right even to know, a grief, a shame, to which in decency she should never remotely have alluded—oh, it was worse than brutal, it was cattish, treacherous, it was base.

But he smiled up at her from calm eyes.

“What's the row?” he asked. “What are you sorry about? You very neatly scored a point, that's all. Besides, on the subject in question, a fellow in the course of years will have said so many stinging things to himself as to have rendered him reasonably tough. And now then”—he gaily shifted his key—“since Bertram isn't the favoured swain, let us hope he soon will be. It's every bit as easy to fall in love with one man as with another, and often a good deal easier. Come—sit down—concentrate your mind upon Bertram's advantages—and remember that words break no bones.”

Ruth's attitude had relaxed, her face had changed, contrition fading into what looked like disappointment, disillusion, and then like a kind of passive bitterness. Pontycroft waved his hand towards her chair. Automatically, absently, she obeyed him, and sat down.

“I must beg pardon,” she said, with rather a bitter little smile, “for my exhibition of emotion. I had forgotten how Englishmen hate such exhibitions. It is vulgar enough to feel strong emotions—a sort of thing that should be left to foreigners and the lower classes; but to show them is to take an out-and-out liberty with the person we show them to, the worst possible bad form. Well, well! Words breaks no bones; 'hearts, though, sometimes,' the poet added: but there again, poets are vulgar-minded, human creatures, born as a general rule at Camberwell, and what can they know of the serene invulnerability of heart that is the test of real good-breeding? Anyhow”—her face changed again, lighting up—“what you say about its being often a good deal easier to fall in love with one man than with another is lamentably true—that's why we don't invariably love with reason. Your thought has elsewhere found expression in song—how does it go?” Her eyes by this time were shining with quite their wonted mirthful fires, yet deep down in them I think one might still have discerned a shadow of despite, as she sang:—

Rien n'y fait, menace ou priÈre;

L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait;

Et c'est l'autre que je prÉfÈre,—

Il n'a rien dit, mais il me plaÎt.

“Thank goodness,” cried the cheerful voice of Lucilla. “Thank goodness for a snatch of song.” Plump and soft, her brown hair slightly loosened, her fair skin flushed a little by the warmth of the afternoon, she came, with that “languid grace” which has been noted, up the terrace steps, her arms full of fresh-cut roses, so that she moved in the centre of a nebula of perfume. “Only I wish now it had been a blackbird or a thrush. I've spent half an hour wandering in the garden, and not a bird sang once. The silence was quite dispiriting. A garden without birds is a more ridiculous failure than a garden without flowers. I think I shall give this villa up.” She shed her roses into a chair, and let herself, languidly, gracefully, sink into another.

“Birds never do sing in the autumn—do they?” questioned Ruth.

“That's no excuse,” complained Lucilla. “Why don't they? Isn't it what they're made for?”

“Robins do,” said Ponty, “they're singing their blessed little hearts out at this very moment.”

“Where?” demanded Lucilla eagerly, starting up. “I'll go and hear them.”

“In England,” answered her brother; “from every bush and hedgerow.”

“G-r-r-r-h!” Lucilla ejaculated, deep in her throat, turning upon him a face that was meant to convey at once a sense of outrage and a thirst for vengeance, and showing her pretty teeth. “Humbug is such a cheap substitute for wit. Why don't other birds sing? Why don't blackbirds, thrushes?”

“Because,” Pontycroft obligingly explained, “birds are chock-full of feminine human nature. They're the artists of the air, and—you know the proverb—every artist is at heart a woman. June when they woo, December when they wed, they sing—just as women undulate their hair—to beguile the fancy of the male upon whom they have designs. But once he's safely married and made sure of, the feminine spirit of economy asserts itself, and they sing no longer. A quoi bon? They save their breath to cool their pottage.”

“What perfect nonsense,” said Lucilla, curling a scornful lip. “It's a well-known fact that only the male birds sing.”

“Apropos of male and female,” Ponty asked, “has it never occurred to you that some one ought to invent a third sex?”

“A third?” expostulated Ruth, wide-eyed. “Good heavens! Aren't there already two too many?”

“One is too many, if you like,” Ponty distinguished, uncoiling his legs and getting upon his feet, “but two are not enough. There should be a third, for men to choose their sisters from. You women have always been too good for us, and nowadays, with your higher education, you're becoming far too clever. See how Lucilla caught me out on a point in natural history.”

With which he retreated into the house.

II

But a week or so later, Bertram having found an almost daily occasion for coming to Villa Santa Cecilia, “It really does begin to look,” Ponty said, in a tone that sounded tentatively exultant, “as if at last we were more or less by way of getting her off our hands. Unberufen,” he made haste to add, zealously tapping the arm of his wicker chair.

“Oh——?” Lucilla doubted, her eyebrows going up. Then, on reflection, “It certainly looks,” she admitted, “as if Prince Bertrandoni were very much taken with her. But so many men have been that, poor dears,” she remembered, sighing, “and you know with what fortune.”

“Ah, but in this case I'm thinking of her,” Ponty eagerly discriminated. “It's she who seems taken with Prince Bertrandoni. I half believe she's actually in love with him—and, anyhow, I wouldn't mind betting she'd accept him. Unberufen.”

Lucilla's soft face wondered. “In love with him?” she repeated. “Why should you think that?”

“Oh, reasons as plentiful as blackberries,” Ponty answered. “The way in which she brightens up at his arrival, absorbs herself in him while he's here, wilts at his departure, and then, during his absence, mopes, pines, muses, falls pensive at all sorts of inappropriate moments, as one whose heart is hugging something secret and bitter-sweet. Of course, I'm only a man, and inexperienced, but I should call these the symptoms of a maid in love—and evidences that she loves her love with a B. However, in love or not, it's plain she likes him immensely, and I'll bet a sovereign she's made up her mind to marry him if he asks her.”

“Oh, he'll ask her fast enough,” Lucilla with confidence predicted. “It's only a question of her giving him a chance.”

Ponty shook his wrinkled brow. “I wish I were cocksure of that,” he said. “You see, after all, he's not as other men. On one side he's a semi-royalty, and there are dynastic considerations; on t'other side he's a Wohenhoffen, and, with every respect for the house of Adgate, I'm doubting whether the Wohenhoffens would quite regard them as even birthish. Of course, she has money, and money might go a long way towards rose-colouring their visions. Still, their vision is a thing he'd have to reckon with. No—I'm afraid he may continue to philander, and let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' unless she gives him a good deal more than a mere chance—unless she gives him positive encouragement—unless, in fine, by showing the condition of her own heart she sweeps the poor fellow off his feet. You question whether she's in love with him. Dear child, why shouldn't she be? 'Tis Italy, 'tis springtime, and whither should a young girl's fancy turn? Besides, she has red hair.”

“Springtime?” protested Lucilla. “I thought it was September.”

“So it is,” agreed her brother, flourishing his cigarette. “But September in Italy is proud-pied April under a pseudonym. The April winds are passional for bachelors and dames. Besides, she has red hair.”

“Red hair?” protested Lucilla. “Her hair is brown.”

“So it is,” agreed her brother, with a second flourish. “But the larger includes the less. I did not say she was a red-haired woman. A red-haired woman is red, a black-haired woman is black, and there's an end on't; expect no mystery, no semi-tones, no ambiguities. I said she had red hair, and so she has, since her hair is brown. A brown-haired woman is everything, is infinite variety, is as elusively multi-coloured as a dying dolphin. A brown-haired woman's hair is red, black, blue, green, purple, amber, with their thousand intermediates, according to mood and tense. Oh, give me a brown-haired woman, and surprises, improbabilities, perplexities, will never be to seek. A brown-haired woman has red hair, and red hair means a temperament and a temper. No, I honestly think our little brown-haired friend, in just so far as her hair is red, is feeling foolish about Bertram, and I look hopefully forward (unberufen) to the day when her temper or her temperament will get the better of her discretion, and let him see what's what. Then (unberufen) his native chivalry will compel him to offer her his hand. Thank goodness she has money.”

“It's very handsome of you,” said Ruth, for the first time coming into the conversation, though she had been present from its inception, “it's very handsome indeed of you to take so much interest in my affairs—and to discuss them so frankly before my face.”

“It is handsome of us,” agreed Pontycroft, chucking his cigarette away, “and I am glad you appreciate it. For we might be discussing the weather, a vastly more remunerative theme. Has it ever struck you how inept the duffers are who taboo the weather as a subject of conversation? There's nothing else in the physical universe so directly vital to man's welfare as the weather, nothing on which his comfort so immediately depends, and nothing (to take a higher ground) that speaks such an eloquent and varied language to his sense of beauty. The music of the wind, the colours of the sky, the palaces and pictures in the clouds! Yet duffers taboo it as a subject of conversation. The weather is the physiognomy of Heaven towards us, its smile or frown. What else should we discuss? Hello, here he comes.”

Bertram came up the garden path and mounted the terrace.

“My mother,” he announced, “is arriving this evening from Vienna. I was wondering whether you would lunch with us to-morrow, to make her acquaintance.”

“Oho,” whispered Ponty in Ruth's ear, “this really does look like business. Madame MÈre is coming to look you over.”

III

I don't know how it is that certain people, without doing or saying anything that can be taken hold of, yet manage to convey to us a very definite and constant sense that they think themselves our betters. Oh, of course, there are people who ostentatiously carry their heads in the air, who openly swagger, patronise, condescend, but those are not the people I mean. I mean the people who are outwardly all pleasantness and respectful courtesy, and inwardly very likely all goodwill, and yet—and yet—we are somehow never allowed for an instant to forget that never do they for an instant become unconscious of their divinely appointed superiority.

“La Duchesse d'Oltramare, nÉe Comtesse de Wohenhoffen,” to copy the legend from her visiting-card, was rather a fat, distinctly an amiable woman of fifty-something, very smartly turned out in the matter of costume by those who are surely the cleverest milliners and dressmakers in the world, the Viennese. She had a milk-white skin, with a little pink in the scarcely wrinkled cheeks, and plump, smooth, milk-white hands, with polished, rosy nails. For the rest, her smiling mouth, the gleam of her grey eyes, and something crisp in the quality of her voice, seemed to connote wit and a sense of humour. Her son had described her to himself as the best-natured and the most sociable being alive; certainly on the morrow, at luncheon, she was all pleasantness, all cordiality even, to her son's guests; yet never, for an instant, could one of them forget that she was perpetually conscious of herself as a great personage, and of them as relatively very small folk indeed. I wish I could tell, I wish I could understand, how the thing was done. Of patronage or condescension—of the sort, at any rate, that could be formulated and resented—there wasn't any trace either in her talk or in her manner; nor of stiffness, pomposity, selfimportance. All pleasantness, all cordiality, she seemed to take them at once into her friendship, almost into her affection—she seemed to conceive (as Bertram had promised himself she would) a particular liking for each of them. And her talk was easy, merry, vivacious, intimate. Yet—yet—yet——

“I'd give a thousand pounds,” said Pontycroft, as they drove home, “for that woman's secret. She knows how to appear the joiliest old soul unhung—and to make other people feel like her fiddlers three.”

“She's insufferable,” said Lucilla irritably. “I should think a Pontycroft and the wife of an English baronet is as good as six foreign duchesses. I should like to put her in her place.”

“A Pontycroft, as much as you will,” concurred her brother suavely, “but you're only the wife of an Irish baronet, dear girl. No, it's something subtle, unseizable. Every word, look, gesture, hailed you as her friend and equal, and all of them together delicately kept you reminded that she was deigning hugely to honour a nobody. It's sheer odylic force.”

“She ate like five,” Lucilla went spitefully on. “She was helped twice to everything. And she emptied at least a whole bottle of wine.”

“Ah, well, as for that,” Ponty said, “a healthy appetite is a sign that its owner is human at the red-ripe of the heart. You didn't, by the by, do so badly yourself.”

“And she consumed her food with an air,” Lucilla persisted, “with a kind of devotional absorption, as if feeding herself was a religious sacrifice.”

“And I suppose you noticed also that she called Ruth 'my dear'?” Ponty asked.

“Yes, as if she was a dairymaid,” sniffed Lucilla. “I wonder you didn't turn and rend her.”

“Oh, I liked her,” Ruth replied. “You see, we mere Americans are so inured to being treated with affability and put at our ease by our English cousins that we scarcely notice such things in foreigners.”

“Well, it's lucky you like her,” said Ponty, wagging his head, “for you're in a fair way to see a good bit of her, if events move as they're moving. The crucial question, of course, is whether she liked you. If she did, I should call the deal as good as done.”

The “deal” seemed, at any rate, to advance a measurable step when, on the following afternoon, the Duchess called at the villa, for the purpose, as Pontycroft afterwards put it to Ruth, of “taking up your character.”

“Dearest Lady Dor,” she said, beaming upon every one, and I wish I could render the almost cooing loving-kindness of her intonation, “you will forgive me if I come like this À l'improviste? Yes? I was so anxious to see you again, and when people are mutually sympathetic, it is a pity to let time or etiquette delay the progress of their friendship, don't you think? Oh, kind Mr. Pontycroft,” she purred, as Ponty handed her a cup of tea. “Dear little Miss Adgate,” as Ruth passed the bread and butter.

They drank their tea in the great hall, and afterwards, linking her arm familiarly in Lucilla's, “Dearest Lady Dor,” she pronounced, in the accents of one pleading for a grace, “I am so anxious to see your beautiful garden! You will show it to me? Yes? My son has told me so much about it.”

And when she and Lucilla, under their sunshades, were alone in the garden-paths, “The outlook is magnificent,” she vowed, with enthusiasm. “You have Florence at your feet. Superb. Oh, the lovely roses! I might pick one—a little one? Yes? Ah, so kind. I wanted to ask about your charming little friend, that nice Miss Adgate.”

“Oh?” said Lucilla, in a tone of some remoteness.

But the Duchess did not appear to notice it. “Yes,” she blithely pursued. “You don't mind? My son has told me so much about her. She is an American, I think?”

“Yes,” said Lucilla.

The Duchess's eyes glowed with admiration.

“Your ilex trees are wonderful—I have never seen grander ones. I am really envious. She has nice manners, and is distinguished-looking as well as pretty. I believe she is also—how do you say in English—trÈs bien dotÉe?”

“She has about thirty thousand a year, I believe,” said Lucilla.

The Duchess stood still and all but gasped. “Thirty thousand pounds? Pounds sterling?” Then she resumed her walk. “But that is princely. That is nearly a million francs.”

“It is a decent income,” Lucilla admitted.

“And she is also, of course, what you call—well born?” the Duchess threw out, as if the question were superfluous and its answer foregone.

“She is what we call a gentlewoman,” answered Lucilla.

“To be sure—of course,” said the Duchess, “but—but without a title?”

“In England titles are not necessary to gentility—as I believe they are in Austria,” Lucilla mentioned.

“To be sure—of course,” said the Duchess. “Her parents, I think, are not living?”

“No—they are dead,” Lucilla redundantly responded.

“Ah, so sad,” murmured the Duchess, with a sympathetic movement of her bonnet. “But then she is quite absolute mistress of her fortune? What a responsibility for one so young. And to crown all, she is a good pious Catholic?”

“She is a Catholic,” said Lucilla.

“The house, from here, is really imposing—really signorile,” the Duchess declared, considering it through her silver-framed double eyeglass. “There are no houses like these old Florentine villas. Ah, they were a lovely race. You see, my son is very much interested in her. I have never known him to show so much interest in a girl before. It is natural I should wish to inform myself, is it not? If you will allow me, dear Lady Dor, to make you a confidence, I should be so glad to see him married.”

“Yes,” said Lucilla. “I suppose,” she hesitated, “I suppose it is quite possible for him, in spite of his belonging to a reigning house, to marry a commoner?”

The Duchess looked vague. “A reigning house?” she repeated, politely uncomprehending.

“The Bertrandoni-Altronde,” Lucilla disjointedly explained.

“Oh,” said the Duchess, with a little toss of the head. “The Bertrandoni do not count. They have not reigned for three generations, and they will never reign again. They have no more chance of reigning than they have of growing wings. The Altrondesi would not have them if they came bringing paradise in their hands. My husband's pretensions are absurd, puerile. He keeps them up merely that he may a little flatter himself that he is not too flagrantly the inferior of his wife. No, the Bertrandoni do not count. It is the Wohenhoffens who count. The Wohenhoffens were great lords and feudal chiefs in Styria centuries before the first Bertrandoni won his coat of arms. It was already a vast waiving of rank, it was just not a mÉsalliance, when a Wohenhoffen gave his daughter to a Bertrandoni in marriage. If my son were a Wohenhoffen in the male line, then indeed he could not possibly marry a commoner. But he is, after all, only a Bertrandoni. Even so, he could not marry a commoner of any of the Continental states—he could not marry outside the Almanach de Gotha. But in England, as you say, it is different. There all are commoners except the House of Peers, and a title is not necessary to good noblesse. In any case, it would be for the Wohenhoffens, not for the Bertrandoni, to raise objections.”

“I see,” said Lucilla.

The Duchess, by a gesture, proposed a return to the house.

“Thank you so much,” she said, “for receiving me so kindly, and for answering all my tiresome questions. You have set my mind quite at ease. Your garden is perfect—even more beautiful than my son had led me to expect. And the view of Florence! You have children of your own? Ah, daughters. No, boys? Ah, but you are young. The proper thing for him to do, of course, as she is without parents, would be to address himself to your good brother?”

“As it is not my brother whom he wishes to marry,” said Lucilla, “I should think the proper thing might be for him to address the young lady herself.”

The Duchess laughed. “Ah, you English are so unconventional,” she said.

But after the Duchess had left them, and Lucilla had reported her cross-examination, “You see,” said Ponty, with an odd effect of discontent in the circumstance, “it is as I told you—the deal is practically done. Now that mamma has taken up your character, and found it satisfactory, it only remains for—for Mr. Speaker to put the question. Well,” his voice sounded curiously joyless, “I wish you joy.”

“Thank you,” said Ruth, who did not look especially joyful.

There was a silence for a few minutes; then Ponty got up and strolled off into the garden; whither, in a few minutes more, Lucilla followed him.

“What's the matter, Harry?” she asked. “You seem a bit hipped.”

He gave her a rather forced smile. “I feel silly and grown old,” he said. “Suppose it's all a ghastly mistake?”

“A mistake——?” Lucilla faltered.

“Oh,” he broke out, with a kind of gloomy petulance, “it was all very well so long as it hung fire. One joked about it, chaffed her about it. Deep down in one's inside one didn't believe it would ever really come to anything. But now? Marriage, you see, when you examine the bare bones of it, is a damnably serious business. After all, it involves sanctities. Suppose she doesn't care for him?”

Lucilla looked bewildered. “Dear me,” she said. “The other day you assured me that she did.”

“Perhaps she does—but suppose she doesn't? I was talking in the air. Down deep one didn't believe. But this official visit from Mamma! We're suddenly at grip with an actuality. If she doesn't care for him—by Jove,” he nodded portentously, “you and I will have something to answer for. It's a threadbare observation, but all at once it glitters with pristine truth, that a woman who marries a man without loving him sells her soul to the devil.”

“If she doesn't love him, she won't accept him. Why should she?” said Lucilla.

“And the worst of selling your soul to the devil,” Pontycroft went morosely on, “is that the sly old beggar gives you nothing for it. Legends like Faust, where he gives beauty, youth, wealth, unlimited command of the pleasures of the world and the flesh, are based upon entire misinformation as to his real way of doing business. Look here; the devil has been acquiring souls continuously for the past five thousand years. Practice has made him a perfect dab at the process—and he was born a perfect Jew. You may be sure he doesn't go about paying the first price asked—not he. He bides his time. He waits till he catches you in a scrape, or desperately hard up, or drunk, or out of your proper cool wits with anger, pride, lust, whichever of the seven deadly impulses you will, and then he grinds you like a money-lender, or chouses you like a sharper at a fair. Silver or gold gives he none, at most a handful of gilded farthings. And I know one man to whom he gave—well, guess. Nothing better than a headache the next morning. Oh, trust the devil. He knows his trade.”

“Goodness gracious!” said Lucilla, and eyed her brother with perplexity. The wrinkles of his brow were black and deep. “You are in a state of mind. What has happened to you? Don't be a bird of evil omen. There's no question here of souls or devils—it's just a question of a very suitable match between young people who are fond of each other. Come! Don't be a croaker. I never knew you to croak like this before.”

“Hang it all,” answered Ponty, “I never had occasion. She's refused every one. Why does she suddenly make up her mind to accept this one? Well, I only hope it isn't because she thinks at last she has got her money's worth of titular dignity. Her Serene Highness the Princess!”

“Goodness gracious!” said Lucilla. “I don't understand you. Would you wish her to go on refusing people until she died an old maid?”

“I'll tell you one thing, anyhow—but under the rose,” said Ponty.

“Yes?” said Lucilla, with curiosity.

“I'll bet you nine and elevenpence three-farthings that I can beat you at a game of tennis.”

“Oh,” said Lucilla, dashed. But after a moment, cheerfully, “Done,” she assented. “I don't want to win your money—but anything to restore you to your normal self.” They set off for the tennis court.

IV

And then, all at once, out of the blue came that revolution which, for nine days more or less, made obscure little Altronde the centre of the world's attention.

It happened, as will be remembered, when the Grand Duke was at luncheon, entertaining the officers of his guard; and it must have been a highly amusing scene. Towards the end of the refection, Colonel Benedetti, contrary to all usage and etiquette, rose and said, “Gentlemen, I give you the Grand Duke.” Whereupon twenty gallant uniforms sprang to their feet crying, “The Grand Duke! the Grand Duke!” with hands extended towards that monarch. Only each hand held, instead of a charged bumper of champagne, a charged revolver.

Massimiliano, according to his genial daily custom, was already comfortably intoxicated, but at this he fell abruptly sober. White, with chattering teeth, “What do you mean? What do you want?” he asked.

Colonel Benedetti succinctly explained, while the twenty revolvers continued to cover his listener. “Speaking for the army and people of Altronde, I beg to inform Your Highness that we are tired of you—tired of your rule and tired of your extravagant and disgusting habits. I hold in my hand an Act of Abdication, which Your Highness will be good enough to sign.” He thrust an elaborately engrossed parchment under the Duke's nose, and offered him a fountain pen.

“This is treason,” said Massimiliano. “It is also,” was his happy anti-climax, “a gross abuse of hospitality.”

“Sign—sign!” sang one-and-twenty martial voices.

“But I should read the document first. Do I abdicate in favour of my son?”

“Your Highness has no legitimate son,” Benedetti politely reminded him, “and Altronde has no throne for a bastard. You abdicate in favour of Civillo Bertrandoni, Duke of Oltramare, already our sovereign in the rightful line.”

Massimiliano plucked up a little spirit. “Bertrandoni—the hereditary enemy of my house? That I will never do. You may shoot me if you will.”

“It is not so much a question of shooting,” said the urbane Colonel. “We cover Your Highness with our firearms merely to ensure his august attention. It is a question of perpetual imprisonment in a fortress—and deprivation of alcoholic stimulants.” Massimiliano's jaw dropped.

“Whereas,” the Colonel added, “in the event of peaceful abdication, Your Highness receives a pension of one hundred thousand francs, and can reside anywhere he likes outside the Italian peninsula—in Paris, for example, where alcohol in many agreeable forms is plentiful and cheap.”

“Sign—sign!” sang twenty voices, with a lilt of gathering impatience.

Of course poor Massimiliano signed, Civillo forthwith was proclaimed from the palace steps, and at five o'clock that afternoon, amid much popular rejoicing, he entered his capital. He had happened, providentially, to be sojourning incognito in the nearest frontier town.

V

When next morning the news reached Villa Santa Cecilia, by the medium of a dispatch in the Fieramosca, we may believe it caused excitement.

“But it can't be true,” said Lucilla. “Only two days ago the Duchess assured me—in all good faith, I'm certain—that her husband had no more chance of regaining his throne than he had of growing wings, and Bertram himself has always scoffed at the idea.”

“Yes,” said Ponty. “But perhaps Bertram and his mother were not entirely in the Pretender's confidence. This story, for a fake, is surprisingly apropos of nothing, and surprisingly circumstantial. No, I'm afraid it's true.”

He reread the dispatch, frowning, seeking discrepancies.

“Oh, it's manifestly true,” was his conclusion. “I suppose I ought to go down to the Lung 'Arno, and offer Bertram our congratulations. And as for you”—he bowed to Ruth,—“pray accept the expression of our respectful homage. Here, instead of an empty title, is the reversion of a real grand-ducal crown. And you a mere little American! What trifling results from mighty causes flow. A People rise in Revolution—that a mere little American girl may adorn her brown-red hair with a grand-ducal crown.”

“The People don't appear to have had any voice in the matter,” said Lucilla, poring over the paper. “It was just a handful of officers. It was what they call a Palace Revolution.”

“It was what the judicious call a Comic Opera Revolution,” said Ponty. “It was a Palace version of Box and Cox.”

He went down to the Lung 'Arno, and found Bertram, pale, agitated, in the midst of packing.

“Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk of congratulations,” the troubled young man cried, walking up and down the floor, and all but wringing his hands, while his servant went methodically on folding trousers and waistcoats. “This may be altogether the worst thing that could possibly have happened, so far as I'm concerned.”

“I see you're packing,” Pontycroft remarked.

“Yes—we've had a telegram from my father ordering us to join him at once. We leave at twelve o'clock by a special train. My dear chap, I'm sick. I'm in a cold perspiration. Feel my hands.” His hands were indeed cold and wet. He pressed one of them to his side. “And there's something here that weighs like a ton of ice. I can hardly breathe.”

“The remedy indicated,” said Ponty, “is a brandy-and-soda.”

Bertram's gesture pushed the remedy from him.

“A single spoonful would make me drunk,” he said. “I'm as nearly as possible off my head already. I feel as if I were going out to be hanged. If it weren't for my mother—some one's got to go with her—upon my word, I'd funk it, and take the consequences.”

“Allons donc,” Ponty remonstrated. “A certain emotion is what you must expect—it's part of the game. But think of your luck. Think of your grandeurs. Think of the experience, the adventure, that's before you. To be a real, actual, practising Royalty, a Royal Heir Apparent. Think of the new angle of view from which you'll be able to look at life.”

“Luck? Don't speak of it,” Bertram groaned. “If I had known, if I had dreamed. But we were kept in the dark absolutely. Oh, it was outrageous of the old man. We had a right at least to be warned, hadn't we? Since it involves our entire destinies? Since every one of our hopes, plans, intentions, great or small, is affected by it? We had a right to be warned, if not to be consulted. But never a word—until this morning—first the newspaper—and then his wire. Think of my mother being left to learn the thing from a newspaper. And then his wire: 'Come at once to Altronde.' I feel like a conscript. I feel like a man suddenly summoned from freedom to slavery.”

“You'll find your chains bearable—you'll find them interesting,” Ponty said. “You leave at noon by a special train. Is there any way, meanwhile, in which I can be useful to you?”

“Yes—no—no. Unless you can devise some way to get me out of the mess. The special train is for my mother. In her own fashion she's as much upset as I am. She could not travel coram publico, poor lady.”

“No, of course not. I hope you will make her my compliments,” said Ponty, rising.

“Thank you. And you will say good-bye to Lady Dor for us and—and to Miss Adgate,” Bertram responded. But there was a catch in his voice, and he grew perceptibly paler. “I—I,” he stumbled, hesitated, “I will write to you as soon as I know where I am.”

Ponty went home thoughtful; thoughtful, but conscious of an elusive inward satisfaction. This rather puzzled him. “It's the sort of thing one feels when one has succeeded in evading an unpleasant duty—a sentiment of snugness, safety, safety and relief. But what unpleasant duty have I succeeded in evading?” he asked himself. Yet there it was—the comfortable sense of a duty shirked.

“I'm in doubt whether to hail you as the Queen Elect of Yvetot, or to offer you my condolences upon the queering of your pitch,” he said to Ruth. “He loved and rode away. He certainly loved, and he's as certainly riding away—at twelve o'clock to-day, by a special train. I supposed he would charge me with a message for you—but no—none except a commonplace good-bye. No promise, nothing compromising, nothing that could be used as evidence against him. However, he said he'd write—as soon as he knew whether he was standing on his head or on his heels. One thing, though, you might do—there's still time. You might go to the railway station and cover his flight with mute reproaches. Perhaps the sight of your distraught young face would touch his conscience. You might get the necessary word from him before the train started.”

“Be quiet, Harry,” said Lucilla. “You shan't chaff her any longer. Prince Bertrandoni is a man of honour—and he's as good as pledged to her already. This is a merely momentary interruption. As soon as he's adjusted his affairs to the new conditions, he'll come back.”

“Ay, we know these comings back,” answered Ponty, ominously. “But a wise fisherman lands his fish while it's on the hook, and doesn't give it a chance of swimming away and coming back. I see a pale face at the window, watching, waiting; and I hear a sad voice murmuring, 'He cometh not.'”

“You're intolerable,” Lucilla cried out, with an impatient gesture. “Ruth, don't pay him the least attention.”

“Oh, don't mind me,” said Ruth. “I'm vastly amused. Faithful are the wounds of a friend.”

“There's just one element of hope,” Ponty ended, “and that is that even to demi-semi Royalty a matter of thirty thousand a year must be a consideration.”

A column from Altronde in the Fieramosca of the morrow gave a glowing description of Bertram's and his mother's arrival, which Pontycroft translated at the breakfast table: how the Grand Duke, in the uniform of a general, met and tenderly embraced them as they stepped from the train, and drove with them in a “lando di gala” through streets brilliant with flags and thronged by cheering subjects, to the Palace, escorted by the selfsame regiment of guards whose officers the other day had so summarily cooked the goose of Massimiliano. “That is pretty and touching,” was Ponty's comment, “but listen to this—this is rich. The Grand Duke introduced them to his people, in a proclamation, as 'my most dear and ever dutiful son, and my beloved consort, the companion and consoler of my long exile!' What so false as truth is? Well, there's nothing either true or false but thinking makes it so. And the mayor and corporation, in a loyal address, welcomed Bertram as the 'heir to the virtues as well as to the throne of his august progenitor.' His august progenitor's virtues were jewels which, during his career in Paris, at any rate, he modestly concealed. However! Oh, but here—here's something that really is interesting. 'The festivities of the evening were terminated by a banquet, at which the Grand Duke graciously made a speech.' Listen to one of the things he said: 'It has been represented to me as the earnest aspiration of my people that my solemn coronation should be celebrated at the earliest possible date. But unhappily, the crown of my fathers has been sullied by contact with the brows of a usurping dynasty. That crown I will never wear. A new, a virgin crown must be placed upon the head of your restored legitimate sovereign. And I herewith commission my dear son, whom Heaven has endowed, among many noble gifts, with the eye and the hand of an artist, to design a crown which shall be worthy of his sire, himself, and his posterity.' Well, that will keep Bertram out of mischief. I see him from here—see and hear him—bending over his drawing-board, with busy pencil, and whistling 'The girl I left behind me.'”

And then a servant entered bearing a telegram.

“What will you give me,” Ponty asked, when he had opened and glanced at it, “if I'll read this out?”

“Whom's it from?” asked Lucilla.

“The last person on earth that you'd expect,” he answered. “Come, what will you give?”

“I believe it's from Prince Bertrandoni himself,” cried Lucilla, agog. “If it is, we'll give you fits if you don't read it out—and at once.” She showed him her clenched fist.

“Very good. Under that threat, I'll read it,” remarked Ponty, and he read: “Arrived safely, but homesick for dear Villa Santa Cecilia. My mother joins her thanks to mine for your constant kindness. Will write as soon as an hour of tranquillity permits. Please give my affectionate greetings to Lady Dor and Miss Adgate, and beg them not to forget their and your devoted Bertram.”

“There!” crowed Lucilla. “What did I tell you?”

Ponty looked up blankly. “What did you tell me?”

“That he would come back—that this was only a momentary interruption.”

“Does he say anything about coming back?” Ponty asked, scrutinizing the straw-coloured paper. “That must have missed my eye.”

“Boo,” said Lucilla. “What does he mean by the hope of an early reunion?”

“A slip of the pen for blessed resurrection, I expect,” said Ponty.

“Boo,” said Lucilla. “It's the message of a man obviously, desperately, in love—yearning to communicate with his loved one—but to save appearances, or from lover-like timidity perhaps, addressing his communication to a third person. That telegram is meant exclusively for Ruth, and you're merely used as a gooseberry. Oh, Ruth, I do congratulate you.” Ruth vaguely laughed.