an
that sort of beauty."

"Ah, then, you are really in love."

"Ludicrously," confessed Max.

"My dear boy, I am very sorry for you."

"Oh, you need not be, sir; I am quite sure of myself at last; and by
refusing to marry anybody else I have only to wait and you will have to
yield to my request."

"You may have to wait a long time," began the King, and then he stopped;
for looking into the future he saw Max in a new light, that same fierce
light which had beaten upon himself for the last twenty-five years,
preventing him from doing so many things he had wished to do. It would
prevent Max too.

"But I want your consent now, father," said the young man; and there was
something of real affection in his voice.

"Why can't you wait till I am dead?"

"That would be selfish of me. Do you not want to see me happy first?"

But to that the King only shook his head.

"It won't do, Max, it won't do. The Archbishop wouldn't like it either,"
he went on, trying to get back to the political aspect again. "It would
be terribly damaging to him. With a connection like that, leadership of
his party would become impossible."

"Have we to consider the political ambitions of an archbishop?"

"You would have to get his consent."

"I don't think so. All she bargained for was yours. I told her I would
get it; and she did not believe me."

"You make me wish that I were altogether out of the way."

"Quite unnecessary, I'm sure."

"Ah, but if you were in my position then you'd see--then you'd
understand. You couldn't do it; you simply couldn't do it."

The King was now saying what he really believed, and at the sound of his
own voice telling him he realized that all he had to do was to temporize
and time would bring its own solution. If Max were King he could no more
do this thing than he could fly. Why, then, should he trouble himself?

To cover his change of ground he continued the argument, and on every
point allowed Max to beat him (he could not probably have prevented it,
but that was the way he put it to himself), and finally, when he felt
that he could in decency throw up the sponge, he let Max have his
way--or the way to it, which was the same thing.

"Well," he said, "I can't give you my consent all at once. I must have
time to turn round and think about it; you must have time too. But
if----" here he paused and did a short sum of mental arithmetic. "Yes,"
he went on, "if in two months from now you find me still upo