“Now, Lord Cyril,” said the Princess, when he had uttered the requisite formula with just the shade of exaggeration which showed that his good wishes were not wholly sincere, “confess that you were completely deceived. Of course it would have been much more sensible to wear a riding-habit; but I knew that the real Sophie von Staubach would never consent to be married in one, and I felt that I must dress the character consistently.”
“The illusion was perfect,” returned Cyril. “I can only congratulate your Royal Highness on the skill with which you have rendered the first act of your—tragedy.”
“Tragedy?” asked Prince Alexis, sharply. “Why tragedy?”
“If I wished to be unpleasant,” said Cyril, “I might quote Shakespeare, and say, ‘She has deceived her father, and may thee.’ But that would be impolite, and besides, the tragedy to which I refer is not a domestic but a public one. It doesn’t require much foresight to prophesy that the results of this night’s work will be
‘Sword and fire,
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,
The craft of kindred and the ruthless hosts
Of Scythia swarming o’er the Euxine sea.’
But you really must excuse me,” he broke off apologetically; “I seem to be dealing in English literature specimens, adapted to suit present circumstances, to-night. The fact is, that my mind is still so completely under the spell of the superb acting of her Royal Highness, that poetry comes to my tongue more readily than prose.”
The Prince frowned. “I fail to see why a European war should be the consequence of our marriage, as you seem to imply.”