his country, would he,
Wilmot?"

"No, I'm shot if he would!" that young man replied. "There must be
something wrong about a man who hasn't any taste whatever for sport."

Penelope suddenly intervened--intervened, too, in somewhat startling
fashion.

"Charlie," she said, "you are talking like a baby! I am ashamed of you!
I am ashamed of you all! You are talking like narrow-minded, ignorant
little squireens."

Somerfield went slowly white. He looked across at Penelope, but the
angry flash in his eyes was met by an even brighter light in her own.

"I will tell you what I think!" she exclaimed. "I think that you are all
guilty of the most ridiculous presumption in criticising such a man as
the Prince. You would dare--you, Captain Wilmot, and you, Charlie, and
you, Mr. Hannaway," she added, turning to the third young man, "to stand
there and tell us all in a lordly way that the Prince is no sportsman,
as though that mysterious phrase disposed of him altogether as a
creature inferior to you and your kind! If only you could realize the
absolute absurdity of any of you attempting to depreciate a person so
immeasurably above you! Prince Maiyo is a man, not an overgrown boy to
go through life shooting birds, playing games which belong properly to
your schooldays, and hanging round the stage doors of half the theatres
in London. You are satisfied with your lives and the Prince is satisfied
with his. He belongs to a race whom you do not understand. Let him
alone. Don't presume to imagine yourselves his superior because he does
not conform to your pygmy standard of life."

Penelope was standing now, her slim, elegant form throbbing with the
earnestness of her words, a spot of angry color burning in her cheeks.
During the moment's silence which followed, Lady Grace too rose to her
feet and came to her friend's side.

"I agree with every word Penelope has said," she declared.

The Duchess smiled.

"Come," she said soothingly, "we mustn't take this little affair too
seriously. You are all right, all of you. Every one must live according
to his bringing up. The Prince, no doubt, is as faithful to his
training and instincts as the young men of our own country. It is more
interesting to compare than to criticise."

Somerfield, who for a moment had been too angry to speak, had now
recovered himself.

"I think," he said stiffly, "that we had better drop the subject. I had
no idea that Miss Morse felt so strongly about it or I