“You are a born courtier, Prince,” she murmured. “Please remember that in my democratic country one has never had a chance of getting used to such speeches.”
“Your country,” he remarked, “prides itself upon being the country where truth prevails. If so, you should have become accustomed by now to hearing pleasant things about yourself. So you are going to marry Sir Charles Somerfield!”
“Why do you say that over to yourself so doubtfully?” she asked. “You know who he is, do you not? He is rich, of old family, popular with everybody, a great sportsman, a mighty hunter. These are the things which go to the making of a man, are they not?”
“Beyond a doubt,” the Prince answered gravely. “They go to the making of a man. It is as you say.”
“You like him personally, don’t you?” she asked.
“Sir Charles Somerfield and I are almost strangers,” the Prince replied. “I have not seen much of him, and he has so many tastes which I cannot share that it is hard for us to come very near together. But if you have chosen him, it is sufficient. I am quite sure that he is all that a man should be.”
“Tell me in what respect your tastes are so far apart?” she asked. “You say that as though there were something in the manner of his life of which you disapproved.”
“We are sons of different countries, Miss Penelope,” the Prince said. “We look out upon life differently, and the things which seem good to him may well seem idle to me. Before I go,” he added a little hesitatingly, “we may speak of this again. But not now.”
“I shall remind you of that promise, Prince,” she declared.
“I will not fail to keep it,” he replied. “You have, at least,” he added after a moment’s pause, “one great claim upon happiness. You are the son and the daughter of kindred races.”