“Your friend seems to be getting resigned to his lot,” said the Princess, in a low voice to Chumbley, as, after dinner, they sat by the open window with a little table covered with fruit by their side, Hilton having kept his place.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Chumbley, thoughtfully; and then, to turn the conversation into another channel, “How do you manage to get such good claret here?”
“Oh,” she said, laughing, “I am able to get most things here to help out the wants of our country. It is easy to have such things from Singapore. You like it?”
“It is delicious.”
“I am glad,” she said, with a satisfied smile. “I reserve it for my best friends.”
“Then why give it to us, your prisoners—and enemies?” said Chumbley, sharply.
“I was trying to show you that you were my friends, and not my enemies,” said the Princess, quietly.
“But you treat us like prisoners, Princess.”
“Only for your good. You shall both be free and lords of the place whenever you will.”
“But, my dear madam,” said Hilton, from his place by the larger table, “this is the nineteenth century—Chumbley, a little more claret? You seize us as a baron might have seized people three or four hundred years ago, and yet you treat us as an English lady would her guests.”