“Earl’s much prettier than duke. I mean a prettier word.”
“He’s got a title of course. He’s Lord Barnstaple.”
“That’s not so pretty.”
“I——” Cecil thrust his hands into his pockets and turned very red. “I don’t mind telling you—I’ve got a title too—what they call a courtesy title. You see my father’s the Earl of Barnstaple and Viscount Maundrell. So I’m Lord Maundrell. I shouldn’t think of mentioning it to any one else,” he added hastily.
“Cecil!” Lee waved her arms wildly and danced up and down. “I never heard of anything so lovely. I feel exactly as if we were inside Scott or Shakespeare or something. Shall you wear a crown and an ermine robe?”
“I’m not a king,” said Cecil loftily. “Talk about my not knowing anything about United States history! You Americans are so funny. Fancy you caring so much about such things.” His tone was almost his father’s upon occasion.
“Why not? The idea! I think it’s perfectly romantic and lovely to be lords and ladies. Whole shelves full of books have been written about them—the standard works of fiction, that everybody reads. And plays, and ballads, and poems, and pictures too! I’ve often heard my mother talk about it, and I used to read the descriptions out loud to her in the winter—she said it would form my taste for elegant literature. I could just see the whole thing—the kings and dukes, and the beautiful processions, and the castles and tournaments, and princesses and falcons. Oh my! Of course I care. I’d be a silly little ninny if I didn’t care. I just wish I’d been born like all that. I’m sure there’s nothing very romantic about San Francisco—particularly Market Street.”
“Well,” said Cecil, bringing down his eyebrows and consenting to establish himself at Lee’s view-point. “You’re going to be ‘like that.’ You’re going to marry me.”
Lee stopped short, her mouth open. “So I am,” she gasped. “So I am. Could we be married right off, do you think?”
Cecil dropped his head and shook it gloomily. “I had a talk with father to-day;” he shivered as he recalled that conversation; “and he says he won’t take you back with us; that he likes you well enough, but one American in the family is as much as he can stand—and, oh, a lot of rot. We’ll have to wait till I grow up, and then I’ll come back for you, or perhaps some one will bring you over.”