“Which was the pirate, you or Mr. Todbrook?” said she. “I’m sure you carted off the plan of a cathedral, and the material too.”
“That is an open secret,” replied he, laughing. “But his was the theft, not mine. I simply inherited what he had left. But he had gloomy taste. Now, were I building, I’d fix upon a little bungalow, a whitewashed place, with a world-wide garden for the summer-time.”
The Princess was not of that simple nature that enjoys simplicity, but she delighted in anything odd, as she considered it, because it made her laugh.
“Do you really mean to say you are philosopher enough to grow accustomed to things?” she asked.
“Till I see a way of escape.”
“And you see none from here?”
The Princess had not such keen eyes as Rosalie; she was not fond of studying faces, except for what animal beauty they might possess.
“None,” said he. “Although ’tis said Todbrook escaped by the back door.”
“He died,” said she, and looked at him with a vague suspicion of horror in her eyes. She was of a superstitious nature.
But he laughed.