Her Highness’s dominions were not in any map of Europe, and perhaps it was her condition of political incognito that rendered her the more fittingly the prey of a passion for the American head of her armies.  Boyne’s belief was that this character veiled a real identity, and he wished to submit to Miss Rasmith the question whether in the exclusive circles of New York society any young millionaire was known to have taken service abroad after leaving west Point.  He put it in the form of a scoffing incredulity which it was a comfort to have her take as if almost hurt by his doubt.  She said that such a thing might very well be, and with rich American girls marrying all sorts of titles abroad, it was not impossible for some brilliant young fellow to make his way to the steps of a throne.  Boyne declared that she was laughing at him, and she protested that it was the last thing she should think of doing; she was too much afraid of him.  Then he began to argue against the case supposed in the romance; he proved from the book itself that the thing could not happen; such a princess would not be allowed to marry the American, no matter how rich he was.  She owned that she had not heard of just such an instance, and he might think her very romantic; and perhaps she was; but if the princess was an absolute princess, such as she was shown in that story, she held that no power on earth could keep her from marrying the young American.  For herself she did not see, though, how the princess could be in love with that type of American.  If she had been in the princess’s place she should have fancied something quite different.  She made Boyne agree with her that Eastern Americans were all, more or less, Europeanized, and it stood to reason, she held, that a European princess would want something as un-European as possible if she was falling in love to please herself.  They had some contention upon the point that the princess would want a Western American; and then Miss Rasmith, with a delicate audacity, painted an heroic portrait of Boyne himself which he could not recognize openly enough to disown; but he perceived resemblances in it which went to his head when she demurely rose, with a soft “Good-night, Mr. Kenton.  I suppose I mustn’t call you Boyne?”

“Oh yes, do!” he entreated.  “I’m-I’m not grown up yet, you know.”

“Then it will be safe,” she sighed.  “But I should never have thought of that.  I had got so absorbed in our argument.  You are so logical, Mr. Kenton—­Boyne, I mean—­thank you.  You must get it from your father.  How lovely your sister is!”

“Ellen?”

“Well, no.  I meant the other one.  But Miss Kenton is beautiful, too.  You must be so happy together, all of you.”  She added, with a rueful smile, “There’s only one of me!  Good-night.”

Boyne did not know whether he ought not in humanity, if not gallantry, to say he would be a brother to her, but while he stood considering, she put out a hand to him so covered with rings that he was afraid she had hurt herself in pressing his so hard, and had left him before he could decide.