“Here? in Hungary? To visit my friend, Count Temeszy.”
“But you are on your way to Thracia?”
“I assure you I am not. What can have put it into your head?”
“Every one thinks so. My parents quite believe it—and so do others.”
“Then they are mistaken, that’s all.”
“But why do you stay here, since Count Temeszy is away? You leave soon?”
“Not that I know of. Why should we?”
“Sir,” her voice was very earnest, “will you be angry if I give you a warning? If there is no special reason to keep you here, do not remain. My father is not—is not a good friend for young men.”
“A card-sharper, of course!” was the thought that darted through Caerleon’s mind. “It’s good of her to tell me, poor girl!” Aloud he added, “Thank you for your warning, mademoiselle. Perhaps you would be so kind as to mention to your father that I don’t carry the revenues of Thracia about with me.”
“You won’t understand,” cried the girl, passionately; “it is nothing about money. Consider what political disturbances your acceptance of the crown might bring about, and that there are those who will suspect you of desiring to provoke them so long as you remain in this part of Europe, however innocent your motives may be. I remember that when the crown was offered to you last year, the affair was much discussed in our circle. I myself heard Count Wratisloff say in my godmother’s drawing-room, ‘Here is the peace of Europe hanging upon the caprice of a boy!’”