Sallies, laughter, repartee came floating down to him. A momentary pang of envy shot through him that the royal party, which to him meant Trusia, should be in such high feather. Owing to his remoteness it was impossible for him to participate in their mirth, so he resigned himself to the duty of entertaining the daughter of an elderly nobleman who was under his escort.
"And you," he said, "you, too, are delighted with the dashing King. Confess."
"I am afraid," she laughed back, "that all girls, even in America, dream what their ideal king should be."
"Your sex's ideal man?" he inquired quizzically.
"Oh, no, monsieur," she replied with grave, wide eyes. "Our ideal man is only a prince."
"Then your ideal king must be something more than a man," he said in soberer mood as she unfolded to him the working of a maiden mind, which is always awe-inspiring.
"Yes," she responded, "something less than a god."
"And the maidens of Krovitch, what have they dreamed?"
She glanced up to see if his expression matched the apparent gravity of his words. Reassured by the entire absence of banter in his face, she answered him sincerely. She was too guileless to analyze his possible mental attitude save by these superficial indications. "A demigod like our ancient sovereign, Stovik First," she responded reverently.
"So you have deified His Majesty already?"