Mrs. Witherby stared the hostess of Villa Rose up and down; but the latter did not quail. She pointed toward a chair with the folded Digest.

Now, many a time, while flattering and “my-dearing” the lady of the villa, Mrs. Witherby—secretly chafing because she dared not call her by her Christian name, and patronize her—had wished that an opportunity might arise to enable her to “put the farmer’s daughter in her place.” In a pitched battle, Mrs. Witherby always won, no matter who her opponent might be, because her tongue and spite were tireless.

“Well! I wondered when you were going to greet me,” she began. Her top-knot waved and her silks rustled as she plumed and girded herself for the fray. But the Digest, gracefully manipulated, waved her to silence.

“I do not wish to hear you talk. I am mistress here, and I shall do the talking.” She moved, and Mrs. Witherby caught sight of her niece. She darted at her in a fury. At the moment she was at least capable of boxing her ears, whether such was her specific intent or not. “Mabel! how dare you disobey me?” she began.

Mrs. Mearely stepped in between and languidly shooed the warlike woman off with the periodical.

“Be silent, if you please. Mabel is my guest. She is under my protection.” She patted Mabel’s head. “Don’t cry, dear. Don’t be afraid. Corinne come and sit by your cousin.” She drew Corinne to the spot indicated, despite maternal hands thrust out to prevent. “You may sit there—and there.” She filliped the Digest to point out the chairs where she desired to see Mrs. Witherby and Mr. Howard deposit themselves. Howard sank into his chair quickly, making himself as small as possible to escape the high winds which he saw were about to sweep over the landscape. Mrs. Witherby, by no means subdued as yet, but temporarily nonplussed, sat down; but she watched her antagonist with baleful eye, waiting for an opening. Mrs. Mearely’s justified wrath burned high and she let the flames spread.

Since Roseborough would have it that she was not a Mearely, nor a legitimate child of Roseborough, she would let them all experience the encounter they sought with little Rosamond Cort, the farmer’s daughter, of Poplars Vale, who could fill her two hands with earth and declare “this is my earth—the earth I sprang from!” and throw both handfuls at anyone who was unnatural enough to look down upon her. “So? You’ll come into my house—with your trunks—and take possession, eh? You’ll be busy here, will you? You’ll tell the whole of Roseborough that Rosamond Cort, whose mother made butter, has gone wrong at last! Yes; the unworthy widow of the distinguished Hibbert Mearely had a lover in her house in the middle of the night.” She even went so far as to mimic Mrs. Witherby’s unique intonations, as she quoted what that lady might be expected to say in the village.

“‘Oh, yes, my dear. Of course I did what I could to protect her. They arrested the man—but, of course,’”—with nods and shrugs—“‘Well, my dear, after all—who was she? Butter, my dear, butter!’ Butter, butter!” she hissed it, furiously.

“Oh, I know you—hypocrite! Now I shall give you a lesson. I shall give Roseborough a lesson. The joke will last this community for fifty years. And maybe it will cure you of scandal-mongering, though I doubt it. The man—is in there! As long as there was a chance of his escape, I would have protected his incognito.” She paused to let the word take effect. Then she floated to the music room door, flung it wide and said, with deliberate impressiveness,

“Will you come here, if you please—Prince?”

Corinne and Mabel turned and looked at each other. Mrs. Witherby and Howard sat up and looked at Rosamond. “Prince!” Mrs. Witherby repeated mechanically.

“What is it, Madam Make-Believe?” the prince appeared in the doorway, with the watchful Marks a step behind.

“Come, please—Prince.” She led him toward the group, taking care to keep slightly aside, and not directly in front of him; for she knew, from Mr. Mearely’s dissertations on form, that one must never turn one’s back squarely upon royalty.

“Mrs. Witherby—Mr. Howard—this gentleman whom you have insulted as grossly as you have insulted me—is” (she consulted the paper). “Wait—here it is. This gentleman is His Highness, Prince Adam Lapid, reigning Duke of Woodseweedsetisky.” She addressed the Prince, diffidently: “I trust I have pronounced Your Highness correctly?”

“Er—the pronunciation is perfect. The w’s are generally v’s—that is, approximately—but to the Saxon mind, of course, that is mere fussiness.” He drew near and murmured for her ear alone. “What’s the idea?”

She did not hear his query; because she was in the medium stage of a perfect curtsy. He saw her silver draperies spread, like a moonlit breaker flowing to his feet; and he put a hand over his heart and bowed, as a prince should—a low and stately bow it was; but it may have been done to hide the mirth in his eyes.

Except to clasp each other’s hands, Mabel and Corinne had not moved. Howard stared. Mrs. Witherby sat rigid, still muttering “prince.” The etiquette for the occasion was to be defined by a humbler than they.

Constable Marks moved into the circle, and took up his position a little to the left of His Highness—as the tradition is, for armed guardians of the Crown, the left side being the weaker, because farther from the right arm and, possibly, also, because nearer the heart (so the history of royal love-affairs, with attendant political catastrophes, would suggest). Slowly he removed his broken straw hat and held it stiffly in front of him on his thumb.

Mrs. Witherby half rose, hesitated, got up, and bowed twice. Dissatisfied with that, she attempted a curtsy. Howard was on his feet now, with head inclined in a respectful attitude. The prince honoured Mrs. Witherby by returning her salutations. She shook Corinne’s arm.

“Get up. Commoners must rise when princes are about. Haven’t you any etiquette?”

A master of ceremonies seemed to have been miraculously provided in the obsequious person of Mr. Alfred Marks, a citizen of a land where such as he eat their bread and cheese with a lithographed group of the Royal Family beside the God-Bless-Our-Home motto, over the kitchen table and where the lowliest Whitechapel pushcart man knows the King’s taste in Court procedure and is free to agree with it or not. He spoke now with reproof.

“Somebody ought to give ’Is ’Ighness a seat. ’Twouldn’t be reg’lar for me,—bein’ on juty an’ hactin’ as the Royal Guard, so to speak.”

Mrs. Witherby, Howard, Corinne, and her cousin, all ran to pull up the nearest chair they could lay their hands on.

“Oh, really—I beg of you. Just one, thank you. Won’t you be seated again?”

Seeing them hastening to obey, Mr. Marks interposed again. He spoke severely.

“Hafter ’Is ’Ighness!”

Heedless of the general awkwardness of four persons, thus sharply arrested in half-sitting postures, the Royal Guard pulled his kerchief out of his coat pocket and dusted the throne, before assisting the prince to seat himself by shoving it against his knee-joints. Then, with a casual gesture, he permitted the others to collapse all the way into their several chairs.

It is customary for royalty, when not incognito, to be discreet and infrequent of utterance. This might explain the silence now maintained by the prince, who had shown himself, earlier in the evening, to be not only talkative but even merry and prankish. His eyes still twinkled occasionally; but he no longer took the initiative in introducing subjects of conversation. He seemed to prefer to follow Mrs. Mearely’s lead. Possibly this was in accordance with some old custom of providing a Talking Woman to do the talking for princes, even as there were once Whipping Boys, who received the princely deserts for bad conduct. He affected not to hear questions, or—murmuring, “Certainly,” or “Oh, to be sure”—he referred the query to his Talking Woman for answer.

“I believe you read, earlier in the evening of Prince Adam’s adventures.” She tapped the Digest with her forefinger.

Corinne, unable to contain herself any longer, cried out:

“Prince! Oh, I’m so glad you came here! But I just felt sure you would. I said so to Mrs. Mearely.” He smiled at her.

Mrs. Witherby’s suspicions were awake again.

“May I ask how you knew he was the prince? Of course I don’t doubt Your Highness at all. But may we not know how Mrs. Mearely was able to corroborate...?”

The prince bowed to her affably. “Oh, to be sure. Naturally.” He looked at Rosamond.

“When His Highness first entered I supposed he was a vagabond. It was dark. When His Highness spoke, of course I recognized that he was not a tramp, but a gentleman.”

Mrs. Witherby could not resist a dig. “I should have known that at once. Naturally, from my station in life.”

“Then—when I served the supper, His Highness went into the dining room for a glass of water. During his absence, Captain Lass-an-a-vatiewicz” (she struggled over the name, but achieved it,) “of the Diplomatic Secret Service of Woodseweedsetisky, came in. He had been watching about here all the evening. Mrs. Witherby saw him looking over the railing.”

Mrs. Witherby sprang up.

“There! There!” she declared, triumphantly. “I told you....” She pointed at Howard.

Constable Marks rebuked her sternly:

“’Ere, ’ere, now! Less hexcitement and more hetiquette before ’Is ’Ighness.”

When she had subsided, Rosamond continued:

“He told me the real identity of my supposed vagabond....”

“The real identity?” the prince questioned.

“I should say he suggested it to me, guardedly, by telling me that he was here from—from Woodseweedsetisky.”

Her eyes besought him to confirm her trembling accents.

“Perfectly pronounced,” he murmured. “Except the w’s, of course, as I said before. And the o’s and double e’s being quite different.”

She smiled happily. “I’m so glad I say it right, now. He said he had come to induce a certain great person to go home to his duties—meaning Prince Adam and his throne.”

The prince repeated, in quick surprise:

“To take a certain great person home?”

“Yes. That’s how I knew who you were. And he said that he knew the prince would come here to-night, because of His Highness’s chivalrous, romantic nature—to protect me, because I was alone.”

The prince rose, in his growing astonishment.

“He expected His Highness here? To-night?”

“Yes; and here you are.” She beamed.

He sat down again. “I pass,” he muttered.

“How wonderful for His Highness to be so understood,” Howard commented.

“It must be. It is,” His Highness answered. He appeared to be in a brown study.

“I think even Mrs. Witherby must admit that there is no longer a suspicion attached to me. And that the fact that my midnight visitor is Prince Adam Lapid explains everything perfectly, and clears me.”

With a gracious, condescending smile, Mrs. Witherby received her again into the fold.

“Oh, yes. Certainly. Oh, yes, the fact that His Highness is a prince clears up—everything.”

“Ah, then I am royal with reason. I confer reputation on lovely woman—rather reversing historical precedent in that matter.” “But, indeed, our dear Mrs. Mearely has given Your Highness quite an erroneous idea of my friendly ministrations in this house. She is so sensitive. Of course, no one in this dear old town, where she is so well known, would think for a moment that—that ...” finding the sentence difficult to complete, she wound up very emphatically—“Er—No one! Why don’t you say something, Mr. Howard? You are our dear Rosamond’s cousin.”

Mrs. Mearely noted the use of her Christian name, but forbore to administer a snub, knowing that she would soon have a better revenge.

“You seemed to—um—be so full of the right ideas, I could hardly contribute anything,” he replied lamely.

“Ah! But there is even a greater surprise in store for our dear, active Mrs. Witherby. His Highness is like a fairy prince. He brings romance to light wherever he goes. Only to-night, Mrs. Witherby said she had a premonition that an engagement would be announced here, before she left this house. How wonderful to have such a prophetic vision! She discerned—in the crystal of her own pure thoughts—that Mr. Howard’s bachelor days were over.”

She saw that both Mrs. Witherby and Howard started but she gave them no time to interrupt.

“Yes. It is my pride and pleasure, to announce the engagement of my dear, considerate fifth cousin—by marriage—to my friend and confidante, Miss Mabel Crewe. How we have talked secrets to-night, haven’t we, Mabel? There! That is a surprise, isn’t it, Mrs. Witherby? But, think! How distinguished to have your niece’s espousals blessed by royalty! That will give you something to talk about for the next fifty years!”

She had waited a long night for this moment and she made the most of it. Malicious triumph shot electrical sparks from her person. “Call me Rosamond again! Cat!” was in her mind.

One cannot make scenes before royalty. Mrs. Witherby’s claws were clipped. She smiled a vinegary smile.

“It is a surprise—indeed. I am glad to learn that the young people are in such affluent circumstances. I hadn’t known of their windfall.”

Howard cleared his throat.

“I had not expected the—announcement. It is a great honour—er—doubly so—er—under the circumstances.”

Corinne embraced her cousin ecstatically.

“Oh, Mabel! Oh—I’m so glad! Oh, Your Highness, it must be wonderful to do such lovely things for people. Perhaps that’s why you are called Prince Adam—because you make all things lovely, like the Garden of Eden.” “Dear young lady,” he responded; “it is my fondest aim to make this world once more an Eden for everyone.” He bowed to Mrs. Witherby, and amended. “Of course, with certain restrictions—chiefly in the matter of drapery.”

Corinne sighed with extreme joy.

“Oh, it does change everything when a Prince comes!”

“For a wedding gift to my dear cousin,” Rosamond said, “I am adding to his future wife’s dower. As Corinne says, it does change everything when a prince comes. I never thought before how much I might give. Come here, Wilton and sit beside her—and thank your lucky stars. She wants you,” she muttered, as he passed her, “well, she shall own you.”

“I do thank my lucky stars, cousin Rosamond,” he answered as he took Mabel’s hand. His face was dark with the flush of his own contempt. “I am the gainer in every way. I am utterly unworthy of her.” Then, as her cold fingers clung tightly to his, he added—speaking to her only, as if he were determined to put behind him everything else that had been said and thought in that room during the night—“perhaps the coming of the prince may change that, too.”

“Oh, dear!” Corinne sighed again, “Mr. Howard, I think you’re perfectly nice. But that part doesn’t matter. Everybody will be so glad to see Mabel get what she wants.”