“’Scuse me, ’nother pers’nal queshion. D’you make zis hooch?”
“I did.”
“’En I do love your still. Old as you are, your still’s mos’ beautiful thing in N’York. In hooch signo vinces. With all thy faults, I love thy still—now an’ forever—one insepar’ble—death us do part!”
And then he slept as quietly as a child.
VII
Three weeks passed—three weeks of constant companionship with Lee Clavering—almost exhausting her capacity for surprise and her cellar. Then, a wireless telegram—“Wife dead must see you immediately on arrival Berengaria Haffanauer.”
The Prince arrived—straight, thin, erect, broke—in his eyes the glance of the Austrian double-eagle, now selling at 99⁴⁴⁄₁₀₀ off for cash.
“Frau Gräfin.” He lifted her hand to his lips with princely courtesy. “Younger than when I first saw you. Couéing, they tell me—and billing, as well—is it not so?”
“Why are you here, Excellenz?”
“Because Austria needs you—I need you. We need you every hour and—every dollar. Will you marry me?”