"Be nice to me. Michael, even when I don't deserve it," she said; "even when"—she laughed almost maliciously—"even when I seem to court destruction."
"Nevertheless," said I, reddening, "I shall pay court to you."
"Please do."
"And make love to you, Thusis."
"That," she said, "is not even on the knees of the gods: it is impossible."
IX
REX, REGIS——
As I descended the stairs to greet my unbidden guests, through my noddle ran the flippant old time sing-song of earliest schooldays—"Rex, Regis, Regi, Regem, Rex, Rege"—an ironic declension of the theoretical in contrast to the actual which I could not very well decline.
Now, as I entered the long lounging room which Smith and I had used as our living-room, I very easily recognized God's anointed, thanks to Thusis. Otherwise it never would have occurred to me that what I now beheld was a bunch of kings in camouflage.
Constantine, the ex-King of Greece, sat near a window drinking a pint of impossible Greek wine and reading one of last month's New York newspapers. The ex-Queen of Greece stood with hands linked behind her well-made back, looking out at the mountains. At another little table the Tzar of all the Bulgars loomed up majestically. He was eating coffee-cakes and drinking coffee. I could hear him.