"I have no cavalier," said Margaret Lucas calmly, "nor have I yet seen the man to whom I could give my troth."
"How many years hast thou?" asked Rupert.
"Highness—nineteen."
He was little older himself, but he smiled at her as he would have smiled at a child.
"Give me your white rose," he said; "as thou art yet free, the gift harms none."
Margaret turned to her brother.
"Charles, shall I?" and a faint smile touched her grave lips.
"With all heartiness," replied Sir Charles.
She took the rose and jasmine from above her true heart, and her small hand laid them on the Prince's outstretched brown palm.
He raised that hand and kissed her glove, and her eyebrows lifted half-humorously under her golden fringe of curls.