“Now you are trying to make me ashamed of myself for being cross,” said Nadia, “and it is not kind of you. Lord Caerleon,” she broke off suddenly, and surveyed him with puzzled eyes, “has anything happened? What is the matter?”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you look different. Something has happened. What is it?”
“Well, I am once more king elect, or designate, or whatever you like to call it, of Thracia, if that will account for it. I didn’t know that the divinity that doth hedge a king was visible outwardly, but I suppose that’s what you mean.”
“You have accepted the crown?” she asked, anxiously.
“I have accepted it, bearing in mind my last conversation with you. I hope you are pleased with me now?”
“It was what I said that influenced you to consent? You would not have done it otherwise?”
“Scarcely, I think; but you showed me my duty so very clearly that I could hardly turn my back on it. You made it quite evident that you considered I was shirking responsibility when I refused the crown before.”
“But how can it signify what I thought of you? How can my conscience judge for yours? Oh, I have been thinking often since we have been here that I may have led you wrong. I ought to have advised you to see which was the harder to do—to accept or decline the crown—and to choose that.”
“But this is a new standard!” cried Caerleon. “Is it to take the place of the measuring of the responsibilities?”