"A what?" he inquired.
"Well, not exactly a queen," said Isabel, correcting herself hastily. "In a way I am, you know. I mean I ought to be. At least that's what they say." She broke off in a charming confusion that made her look prettier than ever.
Tony leaned back in the seat and contemplated her with deep enjoyment.
"You grow more perfect every minute, Cousin Isabel," he said. "Don't hurry yourself, but just tell me quite slowly and deliberately who you really are."
Isabel took a long breath. "My father was Don Francisco of Livadia, and some people say I ought to be the queen."
Tony was not easily surprised, but for once in his life he sat up as if he had been struck by an electric shock. Even his trusty powers of speech were temporarily numbed.
He had of course heard of Don Francisco—that persistent gentleman who for twenty years had indulged in spasmodic and ineffectual efforts to wrest the throne of Livadia from Pedro's father. But that Isabel should be his daughter, and what was more the apparently recognized heir to his royal claims, was one of those staggering surprises for which the English language contains no adequate comment.
For a moment he remained gazing at her in the blankest astonishment; then the full humour of the situation suddenly came home to him, and he broke into a long chuckle of delighted amusement.
Isabel watched him sympathetically out of her amber eyes.
"It's quite true," she said. "I know it sounds absurd, but it's quite true."