“She won’t have me,” responded Caerleon with a kind of dull despair.
“I thought so.” Cyril was careful not to assume a tone of superiority, which his brother might have resented under the circumstances. “Well, one doesn’t object to a spice of pride in a girl, but this is rather too much. I’m awfully——”
“It was not what you think,” Caerleon interrupted quickly. “She refused me because she thought it best—for the kingdom.”
“If only Drakovics knew how completely she agreed with him!” murmured Cyril. “But really, you know, Caerleon, such virtue is a little too bright and good for daily life. It’s convenient for the rest of us that there are people like that, though they might be rather overpowering to live with, and all we can do is to profit at their expense.”
“If you came here to rot me about her——” began Caerleon, angrily.
“I came to fetch you back to the ballroom. People are asking what has become of you.”
“Let them ask. You don’t imagine that I am going to dance again to-night?”
“I suppose you don’t mean to stay here. You had better get home. You look seedy enough for anything. I’ll end up the business for you.”
The offer was thankfully accepted, and it was late when Cyril returned to the palace; but he saw by the lights in Caerleon’s rooms that he was still awake, although a knock at the door only produced a mandate from his brother to “go to bed, and let him alone.” But Cyril did not sleep that night as soundly as a conscienceless man ought to do, and whenever he awoke he heard Caerleon tramping backwards and forwards through his series of rooms.