In his private cabinet Duke Theodor of Waldavia was going through his daily consultation with his Chancellor, Baron Rollmar; a prescribed custom as irksome to both as it was unnecessary to either.
“Your excellency has reckoned without your host,” said the Duke.
“I do not propose, Highness,” replied the Chancellor, grimly confident, “that my host shall have the making up of the reckoning at all.”
“He may not submit to dictation,” suggested his highness.
“Then he will be a greater fool than I take him for, seeing that this project is as much for his benefit as ours.”
“Some men,” the Duke hazarded out of his somewhat limited experience, “would not take kindly to a forced marriage.”
“Your Highness uses a harsh word,” Rollmar observed indifferently.
“Perhaps. I was thinking of my daughter.”
The Chancellor just checked a shrug. “Dukes’ daughters and beggars cannot be choosers. But we have yet to learn that Princess Ruperta has occasion to bewail her particular lot.”