“What, Lenchen, that absurd album of yours again?” she said. “Don’t give yourself any trouble about it, Count, I beg of you. Every one spoils this child by being too kind to her.”
“What is it, Cyril?” asked the Queen curiously, when they had reached their own appartement. Cyril flung the book on the table with a groan, and his wife and Usk laughed when they saw that it was lettered “Confession Album.”
“What is there about me that impels romantic little girls to let me in for things of this sort?” he demanded. “I thought Philippa said that these wretched books had gone out years ago, but it seems some malignant cousin brought your niece this one from England, and my feelings are to be butchered to make a holiday for her.”
“Poor little Lenchen!” sighed the Queen. “I am glad you were kind to her, Cyril.”
“Ah, poor little girl! If Michael was her last chance of escape from Ivan Petrovitch, I’m afraid it’s a bad look-out.”
“He took pains to show that he was not at all attracted to her,” said the Queen, in a low voice. “I suppose it was as well to make it plain, but——”
“The unfortunate parents were doubly snubbed,” said Cyril. “It was quite clear that Ivan Petrovitch saw he would only be welcomed as a son-in-law if Michael disappointed them, and he showed his resentment by arriving late. I don’t envy his future relations-in-law, I must say.”
“The poor little girl herself hates him,” said Usk.
Cyril looked up quickly. “Did she confide that to you? Confidences of that sort are dangerous. It is discreet to forget them at once.”
“I’m not likely to hand it on to the Grand-Duke Ivan, at any rate. And talking of confidences, the Princess of Dardania seems to have been indulging in a good many this afternoon.”