she asked.

He laughed as if there were humor in the suggestion of his absence.

"Of course!"

He slipped in his clutch and drove off through the rain-gleaming streets
with the smile and air of a conqueror. Louise passed into her little
house to find a visitor waiting for her there.

XXX

Eugene, Prince of Seyre, had spent the early part of that afternoon in a
manner wholly strange to him. In pursuance of an order given to his
majordomo immediately on his return from the club after lunch, the great
reception rooms of Seyre House, the picture-gallery and the ballroom,
were prepared as if for a reception. Dust-sheets were swept aside,
masterpieces of painting and sculpture were uncovered, the soft
brilliance of concealed electric lights lit up many dark corners.

When all was ready, the prince, with his hands clasped behind him, with
expressionless face and slow, thoughtful movements, passed from room to
room of the treasure-house which had come to him through a long line of
distinguished and famous men. Here and there he paused to handle with
the fingers of a connoisseur some excellent piece of bronze statuary,
some miracle of Sevres china, some treasure of carved ivory, yellow with
age. And more than once he stood still for several minutes in rapt
contemplation of one of the great masterpieces with which the walls were
hung.

As he passed, a solitary figure, from one to another of that long chain
of lofty, palatial rooms, his stature seemed more than ever
insignificant; yet he walked always with the dignity of the master.
Notwithstanding the slight excesses of his immaculate morning dress, his
pallid features, his insignificant build, he appeared to belong to
these things, to dominate them, to understand them. Every beautiful
object upon which he looked brought back to his memory some reminiscence
of his years of travel. He knew the history of the chinas and the
bronzes, the statuary and the lacquer-work, the friezes, and the great
pictures which adorned his house. Perhaps, he thought, as he paused to
study some Italian tapestry of his own discovery, he had spent too many
years in the contemplative life.

There had been many careers open to him in his younger days. France was
still his own country, and he might easily have joined the long line of
soldiers whose portraits filled one side of the picture-gallery. Once he
had had ambitions, either to wield the sword or to