“It is granted,” she said. “I am happy to see you reasonable again.”
“Yes, I am reasonable,” he agreed. “Another glass!”
Madame, who had been watching him with evident anxiety, shook her head, but Davis did not see the gesture and filled the glass.
“Wait,” said Davis, and refilled all the glasses. “You remember I told you that I had a surprise for you to-night?”
“Ah, yes,” smiled the prince. “What is it?”
“It is that I am going to marry Miss Fayard,” answered Davis, unconsciously falling into his idiom. “This is my betrothal dinner.”
“Is it true?” cried the prince, and sprang to his feet. “Monsieur—madame—let us drink to the happy pair—to their health, to their happiness, to everything that is good!” He drained his glass, then walked around the table and took the girl’s hand. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I have always admired you, for you are good. I pray you to accept this little gift for good luck,” and he drew a ring from his finger and slipped it upon hers, then kissed her hand and released it.
“It is beautiful!” she cried, holding it to the light. “But it is your good-luck ring—you should not give me your good-luck ring!”
“I shall not need it any more,” he said; “as père de famille, I shall not tempt fortune. I shall just grow fat and lazy.” He drew his coat about him.
“You are going?” asked madame.