At night he spent an hour in walking with the Princess—and they were wonderful moments. Each evening he seemed to grow better acquainted with this unusual woman—finding beneath the surface of courtly reserve a depth of feeling, a breadth of humanity which would hardly have been believable from her calm, almost indifferent manner.
Her education in an English school had internationalized her—her wide knowledge of books, in all the literatures of Europe, her familiarity with the best of art, poetry, the drama and music—had made of her a delightful, ever surprising traveling companion.
The girl was interested in everything American. She plied him with questions about the city, the country, the customs. Her brief stay in New York had been all too limited—her curiosity was only whetted by the brief survey of externals which is all that a stranger may get, without the guidance of an initiate.
To her, America represented a great new universe, teeming with vitality. Compared with the mediævalism of her own country, the modernity of the States was a wonderful poetic drama of ideals, accomplishment, and goals worth while.
"What do you think of titles, Mr. Jarvis?" asked the girl, one evening. "When you made your recessional into the Middle Ages by taking the feudal oath to me, you were flippant, almost sarcastic: yet by my standards, I could not feel that any man could defend my interests with propriety unless he were of my own people—so, you were adopted with more seriousness than you supposed."
Jarvis flicked a cigarette into the swirling waters far beneath them, as he answered.
"Titles do not appeal to Americans, as a general thing. To the simpler folk, they represent the yoke of the ancient Lion whose mane was cropped in 1776. To the broader folk, they are no more than the marks of family: although I must confess that your worthy cousin would create much fluttering of hearts and waving of ivory fans around Newport and Lennox,—where American hearts, of a sort, and American fortunes of questionable worth are bartered for a tin-plated coronet. But that's the revenge of the Great God of Misfits."
He turned toward her, resting his hand upon the rail.
"You are no different physically, mentally, socially from many of the Southern, Northern, and Western girls I have met in my own country. You are dependent upon the fashions, to bring your charms to the utmost effectiveness." The Princess blushed in the dark. "But, differing from many of them, you do succeed!" he added.
"You are just as human as the fine girls I have met back home—your titled classes correspond with the fine old families of the United States—and we have the advantage over you that by our own endeavor we can change the titles, by our own efforts, without waiting for the death of our loved ones."