"Is my father round the corner?"
"Nobody's round the corner. I've muzzled your father. I've come quite by myself. And do you know why?"
"No," said Priscilla, shortly, defiantly; adding before he could speak, "I can't imagine." And adding to that, again before he could speak, "Unless it's for the fun of hunting down a defenceless quarry."
"I say, that's rather picturesque," said the Prince with every appearance of being struck.
Priscilla blushed. In spite of herself every word they said to each other made her feel more natural, farther away from self-torment and sordid fears, nearer to that healthy state of mind, swamped out of her lately, when petulance comes more easily than meekness. The mere presence of the Prince seemed to set things right, to raise her again in her own esteem. There was undoubtedly something wholesome about the man, something everyday and reassuring, something dependable and sane. The first smile for I don't know how long came and cheered the corners of her mouth. "I'm afraid I've grown magniloquent since—since—"
"Since you ran away?"
She nodded. "Fritzing, you know, is most persistently picturesque. I think it's catching. But he's wonderful," she added quickly,—"most wonderful in patience and goodness."
"Oh everybody knows he's wonderful. Where is the great man?"
"In the next room. Do you want him?"
"Good Lord, no. You've not told me what you suppose I've come for."