She looked foolish. “I don’t know, papa,” she said feebly. “What do you think we ought to do?”
“He may have been honestly deceived.”
“But Mr. Macready said——”
“That was merely his offhand opinion,” he interrupted. “They’ve been making imitation jewels of all kinds for years. I know the Italians have long been clever at it.”
Elsie was silent. She could not help remembering Rontivogli’s stupid, over-crafty reiterations. She knew that he knew.
“And,” continued her father, examining the paper-cutter critically, “there isn’t the slightest doubt as to the genuineness of Prince Rontivogli himself.”
Another long silence during which neither father nor daughter showed the slightest curiosity as to what thoughts the other’s face might be revealing.
“Even if he did wilfully deceive in this—not vitally important—matter,” continued the aspirant for a princess-daughter, “I can imagine many extenuating circumstances. It isn’t the young man’s fault that he’s poor. It isn’t unnatural that he shouldn’t wish to expose his poverty—especially if he”—the Senator’s face took on a smile of fatherly benevolence—“happened to care for the young lady. ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ you know. And we must not judge harshly those who have less than we have. Still——”
Rontivogli’s “temperament” was vigorously reinforcing his title in repairing the havoc the false jewel had played with him in Elsie’s mind. He had been a convincing lover; Elsie had too much vanity and too much desire to be loved madly not to be a credulous young woman. “I don’t know what to do, papa,” she said in the tone that proclaims a decision reached and a wish for support in it.
