“If that had been any other girl,” he thought, “I would have gone up to her and said, `Was that man annoying you?’ and she would have said, `Yes; thank you,’ or something; and I would have walked along with her until we had come up to her friends, and she would have told them I had been of some slight service to her, and they would have introduced us, and all would have gone well.  But because she is a Princess she cannot be approached in that way.  At least she does not think so, and I have to act as she has been told I should act, and not as I think I should.  After all, she is only a very beautiful girl, and she must be very tired of her cousins and grandmothers, and of not being allowed to see any one else.  These royalties make a very picturesque show for the rest of us, but indeed it seems rather hard on them.  A hundred years from now there will be no more kings and queens, and the writers of that day will envy us, just as the writers of this day envy the men who wrote of chivalry and tournaments, and they will have to choose their heroes from bank presidents, and their heroines from lady lawyers and girl politicians and type-writers.  What a stupid world it will be then!”

The next day brought the reception to the Hohenwalds; and Carlton, entering the reading-room of the hotel on the same afternoon, found Miss Morris and her aunt there together taking tea.  They both looked at him with expressions of such genuine commiseration that he stopped just as he was going to seat himself and eyed them defiantly.

“Don’t tell me,” he exclaimed, “that this has fallen through too!”

Miss Morris nodded her head silently.

Carlton dropped into the chair beside them, and folded his arms with a frown of grim resignation.  “What is it?” he asked.  “Have they postponed the reception?”

“No,” Miss Morris said; “but the Princess Aline will not be there.”

“Of course not,” said Carlton, calmly, “of course not.  May I ask why?  I knew that she wouldn’t be there, but I may possibly be allowed to express some curiosity.”

“She turned her ankle on one of the loose stones on the Acropolis this afternoon,” said Miss Morris, “and sprained it so badly that they had to carry her—­”

“Who carried her?” Carlton demanded, fiercely.

“Some of her servants.”

“Of course, of course!” cried Carlton.

“That’s the way it always will be.  I was there the whole afternoon, and I didn’t see her.  I wasn’t there to help her.  It’s Fate, that’s what it is—­Fate!  There’s no use in my trying to fight against Fate.  Still,” he added, anxiously, with a sudden access of hope, “she may be well by this evening.”

“I hardly think she will,” said Miss Morris, “but we will trust so.”