"Caught red-handed," said Tom of Lancaster, and sitting down on the bench, laid a white hand on Browne's knee. "My dear Browne, you must not poison her cup, even with kisses."
Browne grinned nervously. "Good morning, sir," he said, his eyes on Lancaster's deathly white face, "the doctor said you'd be in bed for months."
"Doctor's a fool," said Lancaster, then very faintly added—"Give me some of that wine."
Browne drank the water in his glass, and filled it with wine from the flagon.
"Here, sir."
"Drop that 'sir,'" said the young Prince, then with a sigh as he set down the empty glass, "How is she to-day?"
"Slept heartily these four nights, so Miss Temple says. She looks herself again since you came, Prince, with your message."
"Prince! I wish you fellows would drop that rot, and let me be a trooper. My name's Tom, and I'm as good as any man in the crowd. So the message cheered her up?"
"Saved her reason, I think."
"Browne," the Prince turned round with a short, sharp laugh, "you're in love with her. Bah, you flush like a girl—of course, you're in love with her. So am I, man, and the rest of the fellows are just as bad or worse. What's the use of trying to hide what hurts. Does it make the thing hurt less? She's not for us.