"Why of course?"
"You always do as the Prince tells you, don't you?"
"Unless somebody more powerful forbids me."
"Who is more powerful—except Cæsar himself?"
I made no answer, but I rose and, crossing the rug, stood by her. I remember the look and the feel of the room very well; she lay back in a low chair upholstered in blue; the firelight, forbidden her face, played on the hand that held the screen, flushing its white to red. I could see her hair gleaming in the fantastically varying light that the flames gave as they left and fell. I was in a tumult of excitement and timidity.
"More powerful than Cæsar?" I asked, and my voice shook.
"Don't call yourself Cæsar."
"Why not?"
There was a momentary hesitation before the answer came low:
"Because you mustn't laugh at yourself. I may laugh at you, but you mustn't yourself."