She was a widow, rich, handsome, and, according to repute,
ambitious. It was quite possible that she, as George put it, was flying
as high as a personage who was everything he could be, short of enjoying
strictly royal rank: for the duke was the son of the late King of
Ruritania by a second and morganatic marriage, and half-brother to the
new King. He had been his father's favourite, and it had occasioned
some unfavourable comment when he had been created a duke, with a title
derived from no less a city than the capital itself. His mother had been
of good, but not exalted, birth.
"He's not in Paris now, is he?" I asked.
"Oh no! He's gone back to be present at the King's coronation; a
ceremony which, I should say, he'll not enjoy much. But, Bert, old man,
don't despair! He won't marry the fair Antoinette--at least, not unless
another plan comes to nothing. Still perhaps she--" He paused and added,
with a laugh: "Royal attentions are hard to resist--you know that, don't
you, Rudolf?"
"Confound you!" said I; and rising, I left the hapless Bertram in
George's hands and went home to bed.
The next day George Featherly went with me to the station, where I took
a ticket for Dresden.
"Going to see the pictures?" asked George, with a grin.
George is an inveterate gossip, and had I told him that I was off to
Ruritania, the news would have been in London in three days and in Park
Lane in a week.
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