"Ah, the delicious cakes! But they are not babas and savarins and tartelettes! They must be American! What do you call this kind? Doughnuts! How peculiar! How effective the arrangement of the bunting, and how many flags—but all of his own country!"
Mrs. Greyshield listened carelessly to the comments. "Oh, yes, he is hopelessly provincial. I shall never teach him to be cosmopolitan. What do you think of such narrowness, princess?" and in veiled admiration she addressed her most distinguished guest, who was also her friend and countrywoman.
As Mrs. Greyshield spoke, the American princess, who was the possessor of an exceedingly bitter smile, touched one of the flags with caressing fingers. "It is a long time since I have seen one. Your boy has several. I should like to have one for a cushion, if he will permit."
The boy's nostrils dilated. "For a cushion!" he exclaimed.
His tone was almost disrespectful, and his mother gave him a warning glance, and said, hastily, "Certainly, princess. Gerald, choose your prettiest flag."
"Not for a cushion!" he said, firmly. "The flag should be up, never down!"
The gay group gazed with concealed interest at mother and son.
Mrs. Greyshield seized a flag and offered it to her guest.
"Thank you—not from you," said the princess, putting up her lorgnette. "Only from the boy."
He would not give her one. His mother was in a repressed rage, and the boy kept his eyes bent on the ground in suffering silence.