some time."

"When it comes off," the Ambassador said, "I am going to talk to the
Duchess and Miss Morse. I think that I ought to give you away."

Penelope made her way into Mrs. Blaine-Harvey's reception rooms, crowded
with a stream of guests, who were sitting about, drinking tea and
listening to the music, passing in and out all the time. Curiously
enough, almost the first person whom she saw was the Prince. He detached
himself from a little group and came at once towards her. He took her
hand in his and for a moment said nothing. Notwithstanding the hours of
strenuous consideration, the hours which she had devoted to anticipating
and preparing for this meeting, she felt her courage suddenly leaving
her, a sinking at the knees, a wild desire to escape, at any cost. The
color which had been so long denied her streamed into her cheeks. There
was something baffling, yet curiously disturbing, in the manner of his
greeting.

"Is it true?" he asked.

She did not pretend to misunderstand him. It was amazing that he should
ignore that other tragical incident, that he should think of nothing but
this! Yet, in a way, she accepted it as a natural thing.

"It is true that I am engaged to Sir Charles Somerfield," she answered.

"I must wish you every happiness," he said slowly. "Indeed, that wish
comes from my heart, and I think that you know it. As for Sir Charles
Somerfield, I cannot imagine that he has anything left in the world to
wish for."

"You are a born courtier, Prince," she murmured. "Please remember that
in my democratic country one has never had a chance of getting used to
such speeches."

"Your country," he remarked, "prides itself upon being the country
where truth prevails. If so, you should have become accustomed by now
to hearing pleasant things about yourself. So you are going to marry Sir
Charles Somerfield!"

"Why do you say that over to yourself so doubtfully?" she asked. "You
know who he is, do you not? He is rich, of old family, popular with
everybody, a great sportsman, a mighty hunter. These are the things
which go to the making of a man, are they not?"

"Beyond a doubt," the Prince answered gravely. "They go to the making of
a man. It is as you say."

"You like him personally, don't you?" she asked.

"Sir Charles Somerfield and I are almost strangers," the Prince replied.
"I have not seen much of him, and he has so many tastes which I cannot
share that it is hard for us to come very near