“No?”

“No.”

There was another silence.  He was standing on the hearthrug, she on the other side of the table; but the room was so small that by putting out his hand he could have touched her.  A queer expression was in his eyes as he looked at her, an expression entirely at variance with his calm and good-natured talk, the exceedingly anxious expression of a man who knows his whole happiness is quivering in the balance.  She did not see it, for she preferred to look at the table-cloth.

“Dreadful things have happened here,” she said in a low voice.

“What sort?”

“Horrid sorts.  Appalling sorts.”

“Tell me.”

“I couldn’t bear to.”

“But I think I know.”

She looked at him astonished.

“Mrs. Pearce—­”

“She told you?”

“What she knew she told me.  Perhaps there’s something she doesn’t know.”

Priscilla remembered Robin, and blushed.

“Yes, she told me about that,” said the Prince nodding.

“About what?” asked Priscilla, startled.

“About the squire intending to marry you.”

“Oh,” said Priscilla.

“It seems hard on him, don’t it?  Has it struck you that such things are likely to occur pretty often to Miss Maria-Theresa Ethel Neumann-Schultz?”

“I’m afraid you really have come only to laugh,” said Priscilla, her lips quivering.

“I swear it’s only to see if you are happy.”

“Well, see then.”  And throwing back her head with a great defiance she looked at him while her eyes filled with tears; and though they presently brimmed over, and began to drop down pitifully one by one, she would not flinch but went on looking.

“I see,” said the Prince quietly.  “And I’m convinced.  Of course, then, I shall suggest your leaving this.”

“I want to.”

“And putting yourself in the care of the Disthal.”

Priscilla winced.

“Only her temporary care.  Quite temporary.  And letting her take you back to Kunitz.”

Priscilla winced again.

“Only temporarily,” said the Prince.

“But my father would never—­”

“Yes my dear, he will.  He’ll be delighted to see you.  He’ll rejoice.”

“Rejoice?”

“I assure you he will.  You’ve only got to do what I tell you.”

“Shall you—­come too?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“But then—­but then—­”

“Then what, my dear?”

She looked at him, and her face changed slowly from white to red and red to white again.  Fritzing’s words crossed her mind—­“If you marry him you will be undoubtedly eternally lost,” and her very soul cried out that they were folly.  Why should she be eternally lost?  What cobwebs were these, cobwebs of an old brain preoccupied with shadows, dusty things to be swept away at the first touch of Nature’s vigorous broom?  Indeed