“He’s quite mad, of course,” Howard said. Dr. Wells wanted to know what became of the man who designed the fountain where the water would not arrive to spout.
“Oh—ah—he escaped.”
“So his criticisms were sharp enough to pick locks,” the doctor chuckled, as joyfully as if the original jest had been his.
“Ah. Quite so. The Councillors suspected at first that the prince’s disappearance and—ah—the whole thing was an anarchistic plot. But they are satisfied now that he really ran off of his own accord.”
“Oh, isn’t it thrilling?” Corinne clapped her hands again. Her large, round eyes had been growing larger and larger, throughout the recital, till it was impossible for them to stretch any more.
“I hope he’ll keep his freedom, poor dear, and let the kingdom rage,” Mabel said. There was a bitterness in her intonation, which always drew her aunt’s anger, for Mrs. Witherby held that Mabel should feel humbled under the weight of gratitude.
“No doubt you feel so, Mabel,” she said, acidly. “But most of us recognize duty and the importance of the world’s opinion. Ah! there is our sweet hostess.”
“Did we disturb you with our melodic outcries?” Rosamond asked, blithely. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining.
“We heard you, of course,” Andrews remarked—meaning to be polite. He was leading a new round.
“You made criticisms?” the violinist asked, darkly.