Their love-story was full of pathos.
They were standing together in a garden one sunny afternoon, and were alone, without eavesdroppers. A moment before, he had been wondering what she would do; what she would say if she knew the ghastly truth—that he was a thief!
He had been born a gentleman—though he had no more right to the title of “prince” than I had. True, at college at Cheltenham he had been nicknamed “the prince,” because of his charming manner and elegant airs. Few of us even imagined, however, that he would, in later years, pass himself off as a German princeling and gull the public into providing him with the wherewithal to live in ease and luxury.
As he stood at the handsome woman’s side, thoughts of the past—bitter and regretful—flashed upon him. His conscience pricked him.
“Princess!—I—I—” he stammered.
“Well?” and her sweet red lips parted in a smile.
“I—ah! yes, it’s madness. I—I know I’m a fool! I see danger in all this. I have jeopardised your good name sufficiently already. People are looking at us now—and they will surely misjudge us!”
“You are not a fool, my dear Jack,” she answered in her charming broken English. “You are what you call a goose.” And she laughed outright.
“But think! What will they say?”
“They may say just whatever pleases them,” she answered airily, glancing at the half a dozen or so smartly dressed people taking tea in the beautiful Italian garden overlooking the red roofs and cupolas of the Lily City, Florence. “They—the world—have already said hard things about me. But what do I really care?”