He measured the distance with disapproving eyes.  “That must be fifteen feet away,” he protested, “and my arms are not a yard long.”  He stretched them out, viewing them ruefully.

“Go!” she repeated with sternness.

He obeyed slowly, his face growing sullen.

“If I am to stay here until I recant what I said about your odious kingdom and your miserable throne, I’ll—­I’ll—­” He cast about for a sufficiently rebellious sentiment, then resolutely asserted:  “I’ll stay here until I rot in my chains.”  He raised his hands and shook imaginary manacles.  “Clink!  Clink!  Clink!” he added dramatically.

“You are being punished for being too fascinating to a poor little fool princess who has played truant and who doesn’t want to go back to school.”  She talked on with forced levity.  “As for the kingdom,”—­once more her eyes became wistful—­“you may say what you like about it.  You can’t possibly hate it as much as I. There is no anarchist screaming his adherence to the red flag or inventing infernal machines, who hates all thrones as much as the one small girl who must needs be Queen of Galavia.  No, lese-majeste is not the fault for which you are being punished.”

For a while he was silent, then his voice was raised in exile, almost cheerfully.

“Destiny is stronger than the paretic councils of little inbred kings.  Why, Cara, I can get one good, husky Methodist preacher who can do in five minutes what I hardly think your royalties can undo—­ever.”

“Oh, don’t!” she stopped him with plaintive appeal.  “I know all that.  I know it.  Don’t you realize that the longer the flight into the open blue of the skies, the harder the return to a gilt cage?  But, dearest—­there is such a thing as keeping one’s parole.  I must go back, unless I am held by a force stronger than I. I must go back.  I have been here almost too long.”

“Cara,” he said slowly, “I, too, have a sense of duty.  It is to you.  The open blue of the skies is yours by right—­divine right.  You have nothing to do with cages, gilt or otherwise.  My duty is to free you.  I mean to do it.  I haven’t finished thinking it out yet, but I am going to find the way.”

Her answering voice was deeply grave.

“If you just devise a situation where I shall have to fight it all out again, you will only make it harder for me.  I must do what I must do.  I could only be rescued by some power stronger than myself.  Come, let’s go back.”

At dinner that same evening Mrs. Van announced to her guests that “by request of one who should be nameless,” punctuating her pledge of secrecy with a pronounced glance at Benton, there would be a masquerade affair on the evening before Cara’s departure for New York.  She said this was to be an informal sort of frolic in fancy dress, and the only requirement would be that every grown-up should for an evening return to childhood.

On the next morning ensued a hegira from the place, the object whereof was guarded with the most diplomatic deception and secrecy.