id, 'since enjoyment is the word. And yet there were much to say upon
the other side. You must suppose me desperately fond of hunting. But
indeed there were days when I found a great deal of interest in what it
was courtesy to call my government. And I have always had some claim to
taste; I could tell live happiness from dull routine; and between
hunting, and the throne of Austria, and your society, my choice had never
wavered, had the choice been mine. You were a girl, a bud, when you were
given me--'

'Heavens!' she cried, 'is this to be a love-scene?'

'I am never ridiculous,' he said; 'it is my only merit; and you may be
certain this shall be a scene of marriage _a la mode_. But when I
remember the beginning, it is bare courtesy to speak in sorrow. Be just,
madam: you would think me strangely uncivil to recall these days without
the decency of a regret. Be yet a little juster, and own, if only in
complaisance, that you yourself regret that past.'

'I have nothing to regret,' said the Princess. 'You surprise me. I
thought you were so happy.'

'Happy and happy, there are so many hundred ways,' said Otto. 'A man may
be happy in revolt; he may be happy in sleep; wine, change, and travel
make him happy; virtue, they say, will do the like--I have not tried; and
they say also that in old, quiet, and habitual marriages there is yet
another happiness. Happy, yes; I am happy if you like; but I will tell
you frankly, I was happier when I brought you home.'

'Well,' said the Princess, not without constraint, 'it seems you changed
your mind.'

'Not I,' returned Otto, 'I never changed. Do you remember, Seraphina, on
our way home, when you saw the roses in the lane, and I got out and
plucked them? It was a narrow lane between great trees; the sunset at
the end was all gold, and the rooks were flying overhead. There were
nine, nine red roses; you gave me a kiss for each, and I told myself that
every rose and every kiss should stand for a year of love. Well, in
eighteen months there was an end. But do you fancy, Seraphina, that my
heart has altered?'

'I am sure I cannot tell,' she said, like an automaton.

'It has not,' the Prince continued. 'There is nothing ridiculous, even
from a husband, in a love that owns itself unhappy and that asks no more.
I built on sand; pardon me, I do not breathe a reproach--I built, I
suppose, upon my own infirmities; but I put my heart in the building, and
it still lies amo