"Thank you, sire; my hours are indeed crowded."
"You are willing to ask the Princess Iría in marriage?"
"As you dispose, sire."
Satisfied and dissatisfied, Adrian held out his hand.
"You are not content, cousin," he accused. "You think me unkind."
Stanief paused to meet the wilful gaze.
"Perhaps I think of a day the years are bringing, sire," he replied gravely, and bent his head still lower to the jeweled fingers which grasped so much.
Adrian flushed scarlet.
"No," he denied fiercely. "Feodor, you can not believe I will fail you if you do not me? You can not think that then, after that—"
Stanief did not help him at all. Taking refuge in wordlessness, Adrian left the sentence unfinished and let his cousin go, with an assumption of dignity that hardly concealed the sting of the rebuke he had received. But he did not offer to relinquish the purpose so distasteful to Stanief.