“Oh, won’t Your Highness tell us about your country?”
He took her hands lightly, smiling into her eager eyes:
“‘Prince, Prince, how does your garden grow?’ It is a great thing to be the prince of one’s own little country. There are no prisons; because there are no criminals. That is because everything is freely given. Our financial rating is according to what a man has given.” He looked pointedly at the heiress of the Mearely fortune, and added, “No one is proud of being merely rich.” She blushed faintly and looked down, accepting the suggested rebuke. His regard, with its whimsical seriousness—its blend of humorous comprehension, and confident love, of human nature—sought Mabel’s, next. “There are no poor; because they have learned to love while they serve—and that makes them rich.” He looked at Howard and perhaps he, too, recognized the “product of a bloodless, stagnant village”—blind only because it had not been shown light; for there was no sting in his words: “Love is valued above everything. The love of a girl’s heart is more precious to her lover than much gold.” The lovers’ fingers tightened on each other’s. “And no one frowns on young chatterboxes or says ‘hush! hush!’”
“Oh—h,” Corinne sighed again in ecstasy.
“There are no gossips in my country. That is because every child is taught to recite, in its cradle, the articles of the country’s Constitution. Every infant can say ‘Oo—goo-goo—goog-ly’—which, when translated, means ‘Mind your own business!’” Mrs. Witherby became as flustered as if everyone in Roseborough did not know (from hearing her oft asseverate it) how she despised gossip. The Prince continued: “Observance of this one law has given perfect domestic, social, religious, political, and international harmony.”
There was silence for some time after this, while the younger folk, at least, tried to visualize a country where all these things were true. Even Mr. Marks was in dreamland, absent-mindedly chewing his hat-brim and spuffing out the straw chips.
“Hit must be a ’appy neighbour’ood,” he said at last, plaintively. His Highness gave him a merry look over his shoulder.
“It is,” he said. “All the police are sergeants. They have no weapons. But the government supplies them with a new cherry ribbon for their watchfobs every Sunday.”
Marks saluted, grinning bashfully.
“Oh, tell some more,” Corinne urged. “Please Prince, tell some more—about you.”