“I don’t envy you,” said Caerleon, drily.
“The position is delicate, but all the more interesting on that account,” said Cyril. “Drakovics has rather a liking for me, somehow or other, and if I can keep in with him, I might put the drag on when he is inclined to act in a regal way that few kings would stand. Otto Georg is a good fellow, and will see that I don’t have too much to do in the way of routine work. In fact, I can see that he wants me as a companion even more than as a secretary.”
“You are very young,” said the Princess, and Caerleon laughed unfeelingly, for only that evening he had told Cyril that he looked so young and so innocent, with his pale face and thin hands, that all the ladies at the different ports would take him for a schoolboy. “You ought to have some one to take care of you.”
“Ah, if Miss O’Malachy had only a sister to take pity on me!” sighed Cyril. “But as it is, I must wait and grow older before I can venture on a wife. When I come back from Bellaviste after thirty years or so of service with Otto Georg, and stay with you in England, Caerleon, I shall fix upon some sweet child just out of the schoolroom, with a comfortable fortune of her own. I shall not look young or innocent then. I shall be worn and grey, and slightly, very slightly, bald, and I shall hint darkly to the dear girl at unknown depths in my past history, with the description of which I will not pollute her ears. That will fetch her more than anything. The attentions of a man with a reputation for wickedness will set that girl on a pinnacle at once in her own estimation.”
“I shall warn her against you,” broke in Nadia, with righteous indignation.
“Do you think she would believe you?” asked Cyril, pityingly. “She would naturally take the first opportunity of asking me whether the charges against me were true. I need only look sad, and remark mournfully that it was easy enough for a man to go to the dogs, but hard indeed for him to recover himself when even his own relations were against him; and if that girl and her fortune were not promised to me before the interview was over, I don’t know anything of human nature.”
“This is merely one of Cyril’s jokes, dear,” whispered Caerleon behind Nadia’s fan, as she sat looking puzzled and angry; and Cyril, who had overheard him, laughed and went on.
“I have another Bellaviste letter here, from our late master of the household, who tells me that there is no hope of recovering any of our personal property. The rebels looted the palace, and burned what they couldn’t take away. The Assembly has voted us a handsome sum by way of compensation, but, alas! one cannot ‘buy with gold the old associations.’ I am especially sorry for you, Caerleon. Your rubies are gone.”
“Oh, those rubies!” cried Caerleon.
“What rubies?” asked Nadia.