.

Dark eyes trying to beat down the merriment in the blue ones! Mr.
Heatherbloom could, in imagination, "fill in" all the stage details. If
it only were "stage" dialogue; "stage" talk; not "playing with love", in
earnest!

"Playing with love!" He had read a book of that name once; somewhere.
In Italy?--yes. It sounded like an Italian title. Something very
disagreeable happened to the heroine. A woman, or a girl, can not
lightly "play with love" with a Sicilian. But, of course, the prince
wasn't a Sicilian.

"No," he was saying now with admirable poise, in answer to her question,
"I haven't visited your wonderful Golden Gate, but I hope to go there
some day--with you!" he added. His words were simple; the accent alone
made them sound formidable; it seemed to convey an impregnable purpose,
one not to be shaken or disturbed.

Mr. Heatherbloom felt vaguely disturbed; his heart pounded oddly. He
half started to get up, then sank back. He waited for another peal of
laughter; it didn't come. Why?

"Of course I should have no objection to your being one of a train
party," said Miss Dalrymple at length.

"That isn't just what I mean," returned the prince in his courtliest
tones. But it wasn't hard to picture him now with a glitter in his
gaze,--immovable, sure of himself.

There was a rather long pause; broken once more by Miss Dalrymple:
"Shall we not return to the music room?"

That interval? What had it meant? Mute acquiescence on her part, a
down-turning of the imperious lashes before the steadfastness of the
other's look?--tacit assent? The casting off of barriers, the opening of
the gates of the divine inner citadel? Mr. Heatherbloom was on his feet
now. He took a step toward the door, but paused. Of course! Something
clammy had fallen from his hand; lay damp and dripping on the rag. He
stared at it--a bar of soap.

What had he been about to do--he!--to step in there--into the
conservatory, with his bar of soap?--grotesque anomaly! His face wore a
strange expression; he was laughing inwardly. Oh, how he was laughing at
himself! Fortunately he had a saving sense of humor.

What had next been said in the conservatory? What was now being said
there? He heard words but they had no meaning for him. "I will send you
the second volume of _The Fire and Sword_ trilogy," went on the prince.
"One of my ancestors figures in it. The hero--who is not exactly a hero,
perhaps, in the heroine's mind, for a time--does what he