s
one grows, perhaps, to expect a little more in my own country."

An uncontrollable impulse moved her. She leaned a little towards him.

"Climate and flowers only?" she murmured. "What about the third
essential?"

"Miss Penelope," he said under his breath, "I have to admit that one
must travel further afield for Heaven's greatest gift. Even then one can
only worship. The stars are denied to us."

The Duchess came sailing over to them.

"Every one is here," she said. "I hope that you are all hungry. After
lunch, Prince, I want you to speak to General Sherrif. He has been dying
to meet you, to talk over your campaign together in Manchuria. There's
another man who is anxious to meet you, too,--Professor Spenlove. He
has been to Japan for a month, and thinks about writing a book on your
customs. I believe he looks to you to correct his impressions."

"So long as he does not ask me to correct his proofs!" the Prince
murmured.

"That is positively the most unkind thing I have ever heard you say,"
the Duchess declared. "Come along, you good people. Jules has promised
me a new omelet, on condition that we sit down at precisely half-past
one. If we are five minutes late, he declines to send it up."

They took their places at the round table which had been reserved for
the Duchess of Devenham,--not very far, Penelope remembered, from the
table at which they had sat for dinner a little more than a fortnight
ago. The recollection of that evening brought her a sudden realization
of the tragedy which seemed to have taken her life into its grip. Again
the Prince sat by her side. She watched him with eyes in which there was
a gleam sometimes almost of horror. Easy and natural as usual, with his
pleasant smile and simple speech, he was making himself agreeable to
one of the older ladies of the party, to whom, by chance, no one had
addressed more than a word or so. It was always the same--always like
this, she realized, with a sudden keen apprehension of this part of the
man's nature. If there was a kindness to be done, a thoughtful action,
it was not only he who did it but it was he who first thought of it. The
papers during the last few days had been making public an incident which
he had done his best to keep secret. He had signalized his arrival in
London, some months ago, by going overboard from a police boat into the
Thames to rescue a half-drunken lighterman, and when the Humane Society
had voted him their medal, he had