Pontycroft laughed aloud.
“There spoke the free-born daughter of America,” he cried.
“I'm afraid we were, rather,” Bertram seriously answered her. “If History speaks the truth, I'm afraid we rather led the country a dance.”
“In that respect you couldn't have held a candle to your successors,” put in Ponty.
“The Ceresini really are a handful. Let alone their extravagances, and their squabbles with their wives—I've seen Massimiliano staggering-drunk in the streets of his own capital. And then, if you drag in History, History never does speak truth.”
“I marvel the people stand it,” said Lucilla.
“They won't stand it for ever,” said Bertram. “Some day there'll be a revolution.”
“Well——? But then——? Won't your party come in?” she asked.
“Then,” he predicted, “after perhaps a little interregnum, during which they'll try a republic, Altronde will be noiselessly absorbed by the Kingdom of Italy.”
“History never speaks truth, and prophets (with the best will in the world) seldom do,” said Ponty. “Believe as much or as little of Bertram's vaticination as your fancy pleases. In a nation of hot-blooded Southrons like the Altrondesi, anything is possible. For my part, I shouldn't be surprised if their legitimate sovereign were recalled in triumph to-morrow.”