“I hope you don’t intend to catechise me upon my private vices,” said Caerleon, hastily. “What I said was only in joke. I don’t know what nerves are.”
“A joke?” Evidently it had not occurred to her that any one could take such a liberty on such short acquaintance. “But I do not even know your name, sir.”
“And is it necessary to know a man’s name before he may make a joke in conversation with you?” asked Caerleon, laughing, but she did not hear him.
“I know you must be one of the English noblemen who are staying in the hotel, and you cannot be the brother—he is small and delicate, my father said so. You are, then, the pretender?”
“The pretender?” asked Caerleon in astonishment.
“I beg your pardon—I should have remembered that the word has a worse meaning in English than in French. The aspirant, I should say—the aspirant to the throne of Thracia?”
“Well, I was, a year ago; or rather the throne of Thracia aspired to me. I refused it, you know.”
“I remember; I was sorry. But you are going to accept it now?”
“Now? I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t a thought of it.”
“Then why are you here?”