d whether
Goldsturmer knew that. He looked at the little Jew sharply.
Goldsturmer's face wore a far-away dreamy expression. He seemed to be
thinking of his pearls draped round the neck of an Empress, a Czarina
or some other lady of very high estate who would wear them worthily.

"Only a queen," he murmured, "should wear those pearls."

"Madame Ypsilante is the next best thing to a queen," said Gorman.

A faint smile flickered across Goldsturmer's mouth.

"I would rather," he said, "that a real queen, a queen by right of
law, wore them. Tell me, Mr. Gorman, is Miss Donovan still willing to
buy them?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Gorman. "I haven't seen her for weeks.
She's yachting in the Mediterranean with her father. If I were you I'd
give up Miss Donovan and look out for a queen."

"Thank you," said Goldsturmer. "But if I give up Miss Donovan I think
I shall not buy the pearls from Madame Ypsilante. There are, alas, few
queens."

Gorman was not, after all, more than five minutes late for dinner. The
King was waiting for him, but without any sign of impatience. Madame
Ypsilante entered the room a minute or two later.

She was wearing a purple velvet dress which struck Gorman as a very
regal garment. Round her neck was a magnificent rope of pearls. Gorman
had no doubt that they were those of which Goldsturmer had spoken.
They were finer than any he had ever seen. It was easy to believe that
there was no other such necklace in the world and that only a queen
should wear them. But they suited Madame Ypsilante. She would, so far
as her appearance went, have made a very fine queen.

During dinner the conversation was about Paris. The King spoke of
pleasant adventures there, of the life he and Madame had lived, of the
delight of having money to spend, really enough of it, in a city like
Paris. He told his stories well, his vehemently idiomatic English
emphasizing his points. He became lyrical in his appreciation of the
joys of life. When dessert was on the table and port took the place of
champagne he lapsed into a philosophic mood.

"The damned gods of life," he said, "are blind of one eye. They are
lame and they limp. They are left-handed. They give the oof, the
dollars, the shekels, and do not give the power to enjoy. The
Americans--your Donovan, for example. What does he know of pleasure?
The English of your middling classes. What is Paris to them? They have
money but no more. Those left-handed gods have gi