“I do, uncle,” the girl faltered, her fine eyes downcast. “Of course I do. I—I cannot tell you a lie and deny it.”
“And—well, if Richard Drury took out letters of naturalisation as a Russian subject, and I made him a Count—and I gave you permission to marry—what then—eh?” he asked, smiling merrily as he stood over her.
She sprang to her feet and grasped both his big hands.
“You will!” she cried. “You really will! Uncle, tell me!”
The Emperor, smiling benignly upon her—for, after all, she was his favourite niece—slowly nodded in the affirmative.
Whereupon she turned to me, exclaiming:
“Oh! Uncle Colin. Dear old Uncle Colin! I’m so happy—so very happy! I must telegraph to Dick at once—at once!”
“No, no, little madcap,” interrupted the Emperor; “not from here. The Secret Police would quickly know all about it. Send someone to the German frontier with a telegram. One of our couriers shall start to-night. Drury will receive the good news to-morrow evening, and, Tattie,”—he added, taking both her little hands again, “I have known all along, from various reports, how deeply and devotedly you love this young Englishman. Therefore, if I give my consent and make your union possible, I only hope and trust that you will both enjoy every happiness.”
In her wild ecstasy of delight the girl raised her sweet face to his heavy-bearded countenance, that face worn by the cares of State, and kissed him fervently, thanking him profoundly, while I on my part craved for the immediate release of poor Luba de Rosen.
The Emperor at once scribbled something upon an official telegraph form, and touching a bell, the sentry carried it out.