“No, Usk,” said Philippa earnestly; “you mustn’t say a word to him. It might get Uncle Cyril into fresh trouble. I suppose if the King is determined to make our acquaintance, he must; but if he does I shall let him know what I think of him.”
None of the party happened to look round, or they would have perceived the disconsolate messenger following them at a discreet distance. His errand of pursuing these strangers to their hotel was not an agreeable one to him, and he hailed gladly the appearance of Prince Mirkovics, whose elaborate salutation showed that he was acquainted with them, as a relief from the necessity. The old noble’s eyes gleamed when he heard the story.
“Yes; I can tell his Majesty who the young lady is,” he said, and walked on so fast that the officer could hardly keep pace with him or find breath to tell the King why he had come.
“Well, Prince; so you can tell us who it is that we have been admiring?” said King Michael, lazily erecting a pile of broken wine-glasses.
“The lady, sir, is the daughter of the Marquis Carlino, your august father’s predecessor on the throne.”
“The niece, then, of the excellent Count Mortimer!” said the Scythian officer who had failed in his errand.
“What does that signify, when she has such hair?” demanded King Michael. “I never saw anything like it. All these German women look washed-out beside her.”
The youthful monarch posed as a connoisseur of female beauty, and his attendants murmured a respectful acquiescence in his decision. Prince Mirkovics alone did not seem to have heard it. His sombre eyes were gleaming again under their shaggy brows.
“I am glad your Majesty has enjoyed this one glimpse of the lady,” he said.
“Why do you speak as though I should never see her again, Prince? I intend to make her acquaintance at the ball to-night, and I’ll bet you anything you like that she gives me half a dozen dances.”