“You would not think to look at him, would you,” said Drexel after the general had passed on, taking Berloff with him, “that he loves his daughter more than he does his life? Yet that is what people say.”
Mr. Howard’s glance followed the straight, proud figure. “He looks to me more like that old Roman party—what do you call him, Brutus—that ordered his own son executed. The girl must be a wonder.”
“They say half the best young nobility of Russia have proposed to her—and been refused.”
“A sort of queen of hearts—eh?”
“You guessed close, uncle, to what they call her. She is known as ‘The Princess of Hearts.’”
“Well,” grumbled his uncle, “I wish she’d step lively. I’m getting anxious to see her.”
And so was Drexel, a little, even if his heart did belong to a woman of quite a different station.
But they had not long to wait. Of a sudden there fell a hush, and into the room through the wide entrance at the farther end, upon the arm of the gray, erect Prince Valenko, there swept a tall slender young woman in a shimmering, lacy gown, with gems twinkling from her corsage, from her throat, from the tiara on her high-done hair. Her chin was held high, her eyes swept the room with cold hauteur, in her every movement was knowledge of her ancient princely blood and of her peerless beauty.
“Well, well!” breathed Mr. Howard. “The Princess of Hearts—I should say so!”
The sudden clutch of Drexel’s hand made him turn. “Hello, there—what’s wrong?”