Madame Ghita’s face was ghastly.
“But the dynasty—your grandfather; it will kill him,” she said, in a voice hoarse with emotion.
“I cannot help it. That is no reason why I should be miserable all my life.”
“And your country?”
“Jeneski will rule it better than I. Come! What is it?” he demanded, seeing that she still stared at him as though fascinated, and made no move. “What is it you fear? That I have no money? See here,” and he plunged his hand into his pocket and brought forth a bulky purse. “I have three hundred thousand francs—enough for two years!”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“No matter where I got it!” he cried, and a little spasm crossed his face, distorting it for an instant. “I have it—that is enough. Come!”
“No, no!” she protested. “No, no! You cannot do this!”
“Look here,” put in Davis, who had caught the drift of things, “what about my sister?”
“Your sister will be far happier if she does not marry me,” said the prince. “I am not in the least the man for her.”