“No—it is hers—and it is hers now!”
“Not so. It is not hers now, nor will it be hers then. Not even your love does she claim for her own. She has nothing.”
“I don’t understand,” said Hilary simply. “She is the Princess of this country; she will soon be the Queen of another. She has all that the world has to give a woman.”
“Do you not know the woman you love better than to suppose that she cares for her position in the world?” demanded this man whom Fleta called her master. “At a word from me, at any hour, at any time she will leave her throne and never return to it. That she will do this certainly some day I know very well; and her sister will take her place, the world being no wiser than it now is. Fleta looks forward to this change eagerly.”
“Well, perhaps,” admitted Hilary.
“Neither has she your love nor your life as her own. In loving her you love the Great Order to which she belongs, and she will gladly give your love to its right owner. She has done this already in bringing you to me.”
Hilary started to his feet, stung beyond endurance.
“This is mere nonsense, mere insult,” he said angrily, “Fleta has accepted my love with her own lips.”
“That is so,” was the answer, “and she is betrothed to King Alan.”
“I know that,” said Hilary in a low voice.