y
before Melanie, looking down on her with his quizzical, honest eyes.

"That depends, Melanie," he said slowly, "upon whether you are going to
marry me or not."

[Illustration: "That depends upon whether you are going to marry me."]

For a second or two Melanie's eyes refused to lift; but Aleck's
firm-planted figure, his steady gaze, above all, his dominating will,
forced her to look up. There he was, smiling, strong, big, kindly.
Melanie started to smile, but for the second time that morning her eyes
unexpectedly filled with tears.

"I can't talk to you towering over me like that," she said at last
softly, her smile winning against the tears.

Aleck did not move. "I don't want you to 'talk to' me about it; all I
want is for you to say 'yes.'"

"But I'm not going to say 'yes;' at least, I don't think I am. Do sit
down."

Aleck started straight for the gilt chair.

"Oh, no; not that! You are four times too big for that chair.
Besides, it's quite valuable; it's a Louis Quinze."

Aleck indulged in a vicious kick at the ridiculous thing, picked up an
enormous leather-bottomed chair made apparently of lead, and placed it
jauntily almost beside Miss Reynier's chair, but facing the other way.

"This is much better, thank you," he said. "Now tell me why you think
you are not going to say 'yes' to me."

Melanie's mood of softness had not left her; but sitting there, face to
face with this man, face to face with his seriousness, his masculine
will and strength, she felt that she had something yet to struggle for,
some deep personal right to be acknowledged. It was with a dignity, an
aloofness, that was quite real, yet very sweet, that she met this
American lover. He had her hand in his firm grasp, but he was waiting
for her to speak. He was giving her the hearing that was, in his
opinion, her right.

"In the first place," Melanie began, "you ought to know more about
me--who I am, and all that sort of thing. I am, in one sense, not at
all what I seem to be; and that, in the case of marriage, is a
dangerous thing."

"It is an important thing, at least. But I do know who you are; I knew
long ago. Since you never referred to the matter, of course I never
did. You are the Princess Auguste Stephanie of Krolvetz, cousin of the
present Duke Stephen, called King of Krolvetz. You are even in line
for the throne, though there are two or three lives between. You have
incurred the displeasure of Duke Stephen an