“Why, of course not,” she answered, looking back into the restaurant and listening, as though interested in the music. “He is odd, though, isn’t he? He is so serious and, in a way, so convincing. He is like a being transplanted into an absolutely alien soil. One would like to laugh at him, and one can’t.”
“He is rather an anomaly,” Sir Charles said, humming lightly to himself. “I suppose, compared with us matter-of-fact people, he must seem to your sex quite a romantic figure.”
“He makes no particular appeal to me at all,” Penelope declared.
Somerfield was suddenly thoughtful.
“Sometimes, Penelope,” he said, “I don’t quite understand you, especially when we speak about the Prince. I have come to the conclusion that you either like him very much, or you dislike him very much, or you have some thoughts about him which you tell to no one.”
She lifted her skirts. The carriage had been called.
“I like your last suggestion,” she declared. “You may believe that that is true.”
On their way out, the Prince was accosted by some friends and remained talking for several moments. When he entered the omnibus, there seemed to Penelope, who found herself constantly watching him closely, a certain added gravity in his demeanor. The drive to the theatre was a short one, and conversation consisted only of a few disjointed remarks. In the lobby the Prince laid his hand upon Somerfield’s arm.
“Sir Charles,” he said, “if I were you, I would keep that evening paper in your pocket. Don’t let the ladies see it.”
Somerfield looked at him in surprise.