ch phrase fall as if he were its proud inventor,
"immediately following the official recognition of Olivia, daughter
of Otho I, as Hereditary Princess of Yaque, there will be
solemnized, according to the immemorial tradition of the island last
observed six hundred and eighty-four years ago by Queen Pentellaria,
the marriage of Olivia of Yaque, to his Highness, Prince Tabnit,
head of the House of the Litany, and chief administrator of justice.
_For the law prescribes that no unmarried woman shall sit upon the
throne of Yaque._ At noon of the third day will be observed the
double ceremony of the recognition and the marriage. May the gods
permit the possible."

There was a soft insistence of music from above, a stir and breath
about the room, the premier backed away to his seat, and St. George,
even with the horrified tightening at his heart, was conscious of a
vague commotion from the vicinity of Mrs. Medora Hastings. Then he
saw the prince rise and turn to Olivia, and extend his hand to
conduct her from the hall. The great banquet room beyond the
colonnade was at once thrown open, and there the court circle and
the ministry were to gather to do honour to the new princess, whom
Prince Tabnit was to lead to the seat at his right hand at the
table's head.

To the amazement of his Highness, Olivia made no movement to accept
the hand that he offered. Instead, she sat slightly at one side of
the great glittering throne, looking up at him with something like
the faintest conceivable smile which, while one saw, became once
more her exquisite, girlish gravity. When the music sank a little
her voice sounded above it with a sweet distinctness:

"One moment, if you please, your Highness," she said clearly.

It was the first time that St. George had heard her voice since its
good-by to him in New York. And before her words his vague fears for
her were triumphantly driven. The spirit that he had hoped for was
in her face, and something else; St. George could have sworn that he
saw, but no one else could have seen the look, a glimpse of that
delicate roguery that had held him captive when he had breakfasted
with her--several hundred years before, was it?--at the Boris. Ah,
he need not have feared for her, he told himself exultantly. For
this was Olivia--of America--standing in a company of the women who
seemed like the women of whom men dream, and whose presence, save in
glimpses at first meetings, they perhaps never wholly realiz