A telegram from the foreign editor of the Times had been brought him with his breakfast congratulating him warmly on his exclusive story and praying him to follow it up.
The Times, for all its drum-and-trumpet democracy, was, as he knew quite well, aristocratic and capitalistic at heart, and so was its American namesake with which his services were shared—indeed the latter journal made no especial effort to conceal the fact—and so the kind of stuff he had sent in the night before was exceptionally welcome. It was a sort of oasis in the desert. Presently there would be a ponderous editorial to the effect that staunch and sturdy Britain, with its traditional love of sportsmanship and fair play, was prepared to give even kings a chance!
Nevertheless he realized that his judgment had been considerably clouded the night before. Doubtless on his own quarterdeck, even Captain Kidd might seem a picturesque and downright character, who could cite injustices done him, and could point to atrocities committed by civilized society far more horrible than any of his own; he might even attain a certain merit because of his bold directness, his straight speaking, his scorn of littleness. He was probably fond of children and a sentimentalist at bottom.
So the king face to face was more impressive than in retrospect; yet, Selden reminded himself, there was a lot to be said for him. The trouble was that there was so little to be said for his grandson.
Though, Selden added to himself, even here he might be unjust. He did not really know Danilo. One thing in his favour was that he did not pose—people could take him or leave him. He was not a coward, and undoubtedly he had his code. Many crown princes had sown abundant wild oats, and yet made excellent kings.
But Selden knew it was none of these things that really troubled him; it was the uneasy feeling that he had been responsible for that quick nod of the head which Myra Davis had given her mother. And that, he told himself, was something he could not be responsible for—not, at least, until he was sure she understood exactly everything that nod let her in for. After that, if she wished to keep on nodding, it would be nobody’s affair but her own.
Therefore it was his duty to see that she did understand. He must go to her and tell her—tell her very plainly and directly, without palliating phrases. He squirmed a little at the prospect, but there was no other way he could square himself with his conscience. She would probably resent it, and her mother of course would be vastly outraged. But he must risk it.
He had the feeling that the baron had been a little lacking in candour the night before; his opinions had been asked without any hint of their implications. Yet, as he cast his mind back over what he had said, he did not see where he would have altered it, even if he had known. Nevertheless it was up to him to enlighten Miss Davis very thoroughly on the morals and manners of princes.
He was staring moodily out of the window, turning all this over in his mind, and keeping resolutely submerged a very, very sore spot in his consciousness whose existence he would not even admit, when a knock at the door announced a boy with a salver, on which lay a tiny note.
“I will be on the terrace at eleven,” it said, and it was signed “Vera de Rémond.”