Mr. Sabin smiled gently.
“You were referring without doubt—”
he began.
“To the Countess,” Brott admitted.
“Yes, it is true. But after all,”
he added cheerfully, “I believe that our disagreements
are mainly upon the surface. The Countess is
a woman of wide culture and understanding. Her
mind, too, is plastic. She has few prejudices.”
Mr. Sabin glanced at the clock for the third time,
and rose to his feet. He was quite sure now
that the note was from her. He leaned on his
stick and took his leave quietly. All the time
he was studying his host, wondering at his air of
only partially suppressed excitement.
“I must thank you very much, Mr. Brott,”
he said, “for your entertainment. I trust
that you will give me an opportunity shortly of reciprocating
your hospitality.”
The two men parted finally in the hall. Mr.
Sabin stepped into his hired carriage.
“Dorset House!” he directed.
“This little difference of opinion,” the
Prince remarked, looking thoughtfully through the
emerald green of his liqueur, “interests me.
Our friend Dolinski here thinks that he will not come
because he will be afraid. De Brouillac, on
the contrary, says that he will not come because he
is too sagacious. Felix here, who knows him
best, says that he will not come because he prefers
ever to play the game from outside the circle, a looker-on
to all appearance, yet sometimes wielding an unseen
force. It is a strong position that.”
Lucille raised her head and regarded the last speaker
steadily.
“And I, Prince!” she exclaimed, “I
say that he will come because he is a man, and because
he does not know fear.”
The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer bowed low towards the
speaker.
“Dear Lucille,” he said, so respectfully
that the faint irony of his tone was lost to most
of those present, “I, too, am of your opinion.
The man who has a right, real or fancied, to claim
you must indeed be a coward if he suffered dangers
of any sort to stand in the way. After all,
dangers from us! Is it not a little absurd?”
Lucille looked away from the Prince with a little
shudder. He laughed softly, and drank his liqueur.
Afterwards he leaned back for a moment in his chair
and glanced thoughtfully around at the assembled company
as though anxious to impress upon his memory all who
were present. It was a little group, every member
of which bore a well-known name. Their host,
the Duke of Dorset, in whose splendid library they
were assembled, was, if not the premier duke of the
United Kingdom, at least one of those whose many hereditary
offices and ancient family entitled him to a foremost
place in the aristocracy of the world. Raoul
de Brouillac, Count of Orleans, bore a name which
was scarcely absent from a single page of the martial
history of France. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer
kept up still a semblance of royalty in the State
which his ancestors had ruled with despotic power.
Lady Muriel Carey was a younger daughter of a ducal
house, which had more than once intermarried with
Royalty. The others, too, had their claims to
be considered amongst the greatest families of Europe.
