“Once down from the balcony, the rest would be simple. A wild flight through the rose-garden, a perilous surmounting of the iron fence, a swift rush down the side yard here, and then a trusty steed in waiting,—you see, my dear, an automobile would be out of the question on these funny roads of yours,—and the wide world before us!”
He lighted a cigarette and leaned out over the casement. The evening shadows were blurring the rose-blooms, and high overhead a half moon was sailing out of a bank of fleecy clouds. The Castle showed a solitary light in the window beyond the balcony. He blew a puff of smoke towards it.
“Kitty—Kitty of the Roses,” he murmured, “do you want to be rescued, dear?”
From the house came the sound of a girl’s voice in song, sweet, caressing; he could not distinguish the words, and in a moment the voice was stilled.
He waited and listened, but the silence held. With a little laugh at himself, Burton arose and lighted his lamp.
“I’m afraid you don’t, my dear,” he said. “You’re too happy. Don’t you know that real Princesses are never happy?”