"And I was obliged to tell you. You
would have been angry with me if I had kept it hidden from you. Oh, dash
it all, Joan, don't laugh! That is irritating."

"My poor Alec! Why did they make you a Prince?"

"I was born that way. My father is one. Do you mean to say you have
lived in Paris a year and have never seen our names in the newspapers?
My people gad about everywhere. The Prince and Princess Michael
Delgrado, you know."

"I do not know," said Joan deliberately.

Her alert brain was slowly assimilating this truly astonishing
discovery. She did not attempt to shirk its significance, and her first
thought was to frame some excuse to abandon work for the day; since, no
matter what the cost to herself, this friendship must go no farther. The
decision caused a twinge; but she did not flinch, for Joan would always
visit the dentist rather than endure toothache. She could not dismiss a
Serene Highness merely because he declared his identity, nor was she
minded to forget his rank because she had begun to call him Alec. But it
hurt. She was conscious of a longing to be alone. If not in love, she
was near it, and hard-working artists must not love Serene Highnesses.

Delgrado was watching her with a glowering anxiety that itself carried a
warning. "You see, Joan, I had to tell you," he repeated. "People make
such a fuss about these empty honors----"

Joan caught at a straw. She hoped that a display of sarcastic humor
might rescue her. "Honors!" she broke in, and she laughed almost
shrilly, for her voice was naturally sweet and harmonious. "Is it an
honor, then, to be born a Prince?"

"If a man is worth his salt, the fact that he is regarded as a Prince
should make him princely."

"That is well said. Try and live up to it. You will find it a task,
though, to regulate your life by copybook maxims."

"The princedom is worth nothing otherwise. In its way, it is a handicap.
Most young fellows of my age have some sort of career before them, while
I--I really am what you said I was, an idler. I didn't like the taunt
from your lips; but it was true. Well, I am going to change all that. I
am tired of posturing as one of Daudet's 'Kings in Exile.' We expelled
potentates all live in Paris; that is the irony of it. I want to be
candid with you, Joan. I have seen you every day since we met at
Rudin's; but I did not dare to meet you too often lest you should send
me away. You have given me a purpose in life. You have created a