perhaps a little differently. But,
indeed, none of my treasures here have cost me anything. They have come
to me through more generations than I should care to reckon up. The
bronze idol, for instance, upon my writing case is four hundred years
old, to my certain knowledge, and my tapestries were woven when in this
country your walls went bare."

"What I admire more than anything," the Duchess declared, "is your
beautiful violet tone."

"I am glad," he answered, "that you like my coloring. Some people have
thought it sombre. To me dark colors indoors are restful."

"Everything about the whole place is restful," Penelope said,--"your
servants with their quaint dresses and slippered feet, your thick
carpets, the smell of those strange burning leaves, and, forgive me if I
say so, your closed windows. I suppose in time I should have a headache.
For a little while it is delicious."

The Prince sighed.

"Fresh air is good," he said, "but the air that comes from your streets
does not seem to me to be fresh, nor do I like the roar of your great
city always in my ears. Here I cut myself off, and I feel that I can
think. Duchess, you must try those preserved fruits. They come to me
from my own land. I think that the secret of preserving them is not
known here. You see, they are packed with rose leaves and lemon plant.
There is a golden fig, Miss Penelope,--the fruit of great knowledge, the
magical fruit, too, they say. Eat that and close your eyes and you can
look back and tell us all the wonders of the past. That is to say," he
added with a faint smile, "if the magic works."

"But the magic never does work," she protested with a little sigh, "and
I am not in the least interested in the past. Tell me something about
the future?"

"Surely that is easier," he answered. "Over the past we have lost our
control,--what has been must remain to the end of time. The future is
ours to do what we will with."

"That sounds so reasonable," the Duchess declared, "and it is so
absolutely false. No one can do what they will with the future. It is
the future which does what it will with us."

The Prince smiled tolerantly.

"It depends a good deal, does it not," he said, "upon ourselves? Miss
Penelope is the daughter of a country which is still young, which has
all its future before it, and which, has proclaimed to the world its
fixed intention of controlling its own destinies. She, at any rate,
should have imbibed the national spirit