“Who is she?”
Lingard very red and grave declared curtly:
“A princess.”
Immediately he looked round with suspicion. No one smiled. D'Alcacer, courteous and nonchalant, lounged up close to Mrs. Travers' elbow.
“If she is a princess, then this man is a knight,” he murmured with conviction. “A knight as I live! A descendant of the immortal hidalgo errant upon the sea. It would be good for us to have him for a friend. Seriously I think that you ought—”
The two stepped aside and spoke low and hurriedly.
“Yes, you ought—”
“How can I?” she interrupted, catching the meaning like a ball.
“By saying something.”
“Is it really necessary?” she asked, doubtfully.