--which
Helen of Troy hadn't, combustible as we know her to have been: but brains
are bombshells in comparison with your old-fashioned pine-brands for
kindling men and cities. Ambition's the husband of Adiante Adister, and
all who come nigh her are steps to her aim. She never consulted her
father about Prince Nikolas; she had begun her march and she didn't mean
to be arrested. She simply announced her approaching union; and as she
couldn't have a scion of one of the Royal House of Europe, she put her
foot on Prince Nikolas. And he 's not to fancy he 's in for a peaceful
existence; he's a stone in a sling, and probably mistaken the rocking
that's to launch him through the air for a condition of remarkable ease,
perfectly remarkable in its lullaby motion; ha! well, and I've not heard
of ambition that didn't kill its votary: somehow it will; 'tis sure to.
There she lies!'

The prophetic captain pointed at the spot. He then said: 'And now I'm for
my pipe, and the blackest clay of the party, with your permission. I'll
just go to the window to see if the stars are out overhead. They're my
blessed guardian angels.'

There was a pause. Philip broke from a brown study to glance at his
brother. Patrick made a queer face.

'Fun and good-fellowship to-night, Con,' said Philip, as the captain
sadly reported no star visible.

'Have I ever flown a signal to the contrary?' retorted the captain.

'No politics, and I 'll thank you,' said Philip: 'none of your early
recollections. Be jovial.'

'You should have seen me here the other night about a month ago; I
smuggled up an old countrywoman of ours, with the connivance of rosy
Mary,' said Captain Con, suffused in the merriest of grins. 'She sells
apples at a stall at a corner of a street hard by, and I saw her sitting
pulling at her old pipe in the cold October fog morning and evening for
comfort, and was overwhelmed with compassion and fraternal sentiment; and
so I invited her to be at the door of the house at half-past ten, just to
have a roll with her in Irish mud, and mend her torn soul with a stitch
or two of rejoicing. She told me stories; and one was pretty good, of a
relative of hers, or somebody's--I should say, a century old, but she
told it with a becoming air of appropriation that made it family history,
for she's come down in the world, and this fellow had a stain of red upon
him, and wanted cleaning; and, "What!" says the good father, "Mika! you
did it in cold blood?"