“A duke is higher than an earl,” said the well-informed Emily.
“But he isn’t belted,” insisted Elizabeth. “It’s a ‘belted knight’ and a ‘belted earl’ always; never a belted duke. You can wear a belt if you’re an earl, Emily.”
“I do wear a belt,” said the prosaic Emily.
“Then, of course, you’ve got to be an earl,” retorted Elizabeth; reasoning by some process, not perfectly plain to us, but conclusive enough for Emily, who tepidly yielded the point. “Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel”—
“I won’t be named Philip,” interrupted Emily rebelliously.
“Well, then, Henry Howard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, and we’ll live in Arundel Castle.”
“You got that out of ‘Constance Sherwood,’” said Marie.
Elizabeth nodded. Lady Fullerton’s pretty story had been read aloud in the refectory, and we were rather “up” in English titles as a consequence.
“I’m going to be Prince of Castile,” said Tony suddenly.
I leaped from my chair. “You shan’t!” I flashed, and then stopped short, bitterly conscious of my impotence. Tony had “spoken first.” There was no wresting her honours from her. She knew, she must have known that Castile was the home of my soul, though no one had ever sounded the depth of my devotion. My whole life was lit by Spain’s sombre glow. It was the land where my fancy strayed whenever it escaped from thraldom, and to which I paid a secret and passionate homage. The destruction of the Invincible Armada was the permanent sorrow of my childhood. And now Tony had located herself in this paradise of romance. “Castile’s proud dames” would be her peers and countrywomen. The Alhambra would be her pleasure-house (geographically I was a trifle indistinct), and Moorish slaves would wait upon her will. I could not even share these blessed privileges, because it was plain to all of us that Tony’s one chance of connubial felicity lay in having Lilly for a partner. The divorce courts would have presented a speedy termination to any other alliance.