“Is it possible that the dearest wish of my heart is granted me?” he asked in a voice broken by emotion. “You have arrived at an understanding?”
“If the Princess will take me, I hope—er—er—I am ready—er—I will marry her,” stammered Caerleon.
“And if his Majesty will have me, I shall welcome the honour of marrying him,” said Princess Ottilie boldly, a mischievous light in her black eyes.
“Then you really are engaged to her?” asked Cyril, incredulously, when the brothers next found themselves alone together.
“I suppose so,” returned Caerleon, gruffly enough.
“Well I am most extraordinarily delighted to hear it, of course. Congrats, and all that sort of thing, old man. I suppose she wouldn’t let you off?”
“That’s about it.”
“You ought to feel flattered by that, at any rate. She’s an awfully good-looking girl,—any amount of go in her. I shouldn’t wonder if you find her rather overpowering though, just at first. I’ll take her off your hands now and then if you do. She’ll think a heap more of you if you are busy sometimes.”
“I should have thought you would have recommended me to try and get used to her if I have got to marry her,” growled Caerleon.
Cyril laughed.