She nodded swiftly. "What must you think of me?" she murmured a little unsteadily. "I didn't believe it at first, but they swore it—was true; and, somehow, things fitted in, and—and—— Do you think you'll ever forgive me?"
One hand stole across the table, and the strong brown fingers closed over the tiny gloved ones.
"Did you really think I wouldn't?" he questioned softly, gazing into her wonderful eyes with an expression in his own which swiftly brought her long lashes sweeping down on crimsoning cheek.
"Well?" he queried as she made no answer.
"I—I hoped," she faltered.
It was the voice of the grand duke, weary, sorrowful, but full of an unmistakable resignation, which broke the silence.
"I cannot blame you, Oscar," he was saying quietly. "I have clung to the old traditions because there seemed no other way—perhaps I lacked the courage to do what you have done—and my life turned to dust and ashes. I love you too well ever to wish to see that happen to you. Have you any—plans?"
"Heaps of them, uncle," the prince answered jauntily. "I'm going to become an American citizen. I think I'll buy a big place in the South and turn farmer. I've money enough."
The two at the table saw the old man wince slightly, but in an instant he had recovered his composure.
"What a thoroughbred he is!" Barry whispered admiringly. He had apparently forgotten to release Shirley's hand, but she seemed too absorbed to notice the lapse.