“I’ll bet my soul Frances is right,” drawled Lord Bob. “She always is, you know. My boy, if she says you had a sweetheart, you either had one or somebody owes you one. You’ve never collected, perhaps.”
“If he collected them he’d have a harem,” observed Mr. Savage, sagely. “He’s had so many he can’t count ’em.”
“I should think it disgusting to count them, Mr. Savage, even if he could,” said Lady Jane, severely.
“I can count mine backwards,” he said.
“Beginning at one?”
“Yes, Lady Jane; one in my teens, none at present. No task, at all, to count mine.”
“Won’t you give me the name of that old sweetheart of mine, Lady Saxondale? Whom is the prince to marry?” asked Quentin.
“Dorothy Garrison. She lived in your block seven or eight years ago, up to the time she went to Brussels with her mother. Now, do you remember?”
“You don’t mean it! Little Dorothy? By George, she was a pretty girl, too. Of course, I remember her. But that was ages ago. She was fourteen and I was nineteen. You are right, Lady Saxondale. I’ll confess to having regarded her as the fairest creature the sun ever shone upon. For six solid, delicious months she was the foundation of every thought that touched my brain. And then—well, what happened then? Oh, yes; we quarrelled and forgot each other. So she’s the girl who’s to marry the prince, is she?” Quentin’s face was serious for the moment; a far-off look of real concern came into his eyes. He was recalling a sweet, dainty face, a girlish figure, and the days gone by.
“How odd I did not think of it before. Really, you two were dreadful spoons in those days. Mamma used to worry for fear you’d carry out your threat to run away with her. And now she’s to be a real live princess.” Lady Frances created a profound sensation when she resurrected Quentin’s boyhood love affair with the one American girl that all Europe talked about at that moment. Lord Bob was excited, perhaps for the first time since he proposed to Frances Thornow.
“By Jove, old man, this is rare, devilish rare. No wonder you have such a deuced antipathy to the prince. Intuition must have told you that he was to marry one of the ladies of your past.”
“Why, Bob, we were children, and there was nothing to it. Truly, I had forgotten that pretty child—that’s all she was—and I’ll warrant she wouldn’t remember my name if some one spoke it in her presence. Every boy and girl has had that sort of an affair.”
“She’s the most beautiful creature I ever saw,” cried Lady Jane, ecstatically. Dickey Savage looked sharply at her vivacious face. “When did you last see her, Mr. Quentin?”
“I can’t recall, but I know it was when her hair hung down her back. She left New York before she was fifteen, I’m quite sure. I think I was in love with a young widow fourteen years my senior, at the time, and did not pay much heed to Dorothy’s departure. She and her mother have been traveling since then?”
“They traveled for three years before Mrs. Garrison could make up her mind to settle down in Brussels. I believe she said it reminded her of Paris, only it was a little more so,” said Lord Bob. “We met them in Paris five years ago, on our wedding trip, and she was undecided until I told her she might take a house near the king’s palace in Brussels, such as it is, and off she flew to be as close to the crown as possible. She struck me as a gory old party who couldn’t live comfortably unless she were dabbling in blue blood. The girl was charming, though.”
“She’s in London now,” ventured Sir James. “The papers say she came especially to see the boat races, but there is a pretty well established belief that she came because the prince is here. Despite their millions, I understand it is a love match.”
“I hope I may have a look at her while I’m here, just to see what time has done for her,” said Quentin.
“You may have the chance to ask if she remembers you,” said Dickey.
“And if she thinks you’ve grown older,” added Lord Bob.
“Will you tell her you are not married?” demanded Lady Jane.
“I’ll do but one thing, judging from the way you describe the goddess. Just stand with open mouth and marvel at her magnificence. Somewhere among my traps I have a picture of her when she was fourteen, taken with me one afternoon at a tin-typer’s. If I can find it, I’ll show it to her, just to prove that we both lived ten years ago. She’s doubtless lived so much since I saw her last that she’ll deny an existence so far back as that.”
“You won’t be so deuced sarcastic when you see her, even if she is to marry a prince. I tell you, Phil, she is something worth looking at forever,” said Lord Bob.
“I never saw such eyes, such a complexion, such hair, such a carriage,” cried Lady Frances.
“Has she any teeth?” asked Dickey, and was properly frowned upon by Lady Jane.
“You describe her as completely in that sentence, Lady Frances, as a novelist could in eight pages,” said Quentin.
“No novelist could describe her,” was the answer.
“It’s to be hoped no novelist may attempt it,” said Quentin. “She is beautiful beyond description, she will be a princess, and she knew me when I didn’t know enough to appreciate her. Her eyes were blue in the old days, and her hair was almost black. Colors still obtain? Then we have her description in advance. Now, let’s go on with the romance.”
CHAPTER V
A SUNDAY ENCOUNTER
It was a sunny Sunday morning and the church parade was popular. Lady Frances and Quentin were walking together when Prince Ugo joined them. He looked hardly over twenty-five, his wavy black hair giving him a picturesque look. He wore no beard, and his dark skin was as clear as a girl’s.
“By the way,” said Quentin, “Lady Saxondale tells me you are to marry a former acquaintance of mine.”
“Miss Garrison is an acquaintance?” cried the prince, lifting his dark eyes. An instant later his gaze roamed away into the horde of passing women, as if searching for the woman whose name brought light to his soul.
“Was an acquaintance, I think I said. I doubt if she remembers me now. She was a child when I knew her. Is she here this morning?” asked Phil, secretly amused by the anxious look in the Italian’s eyes.
“She will be with Lady Marnham, Ah, I see them now.” The young prince was looking eagerly ahead.
Quentin saw Miss Garrison and gasped with astonishment. Could that stunning young woman be the little Dorothy of New York days? He could scarcely believe his eyes and ears, notwithstanding the introductions which followed.
“And here is an old New York friend. Miss Garrison, Mr. Philip Quentin. You surely remember him, Miss Garrison,” said Lady Frances, with a peculiar gleam in her eye. For a second the young lady at Quentin’s side exhibited surprise; a faint flush swept into her cheek, and then, with a rare smile, she extended her hand to the American.
“Of course, I remember him. Phil and I were playmates in the old days. Dear me, it seems a century ago,” she said.
“I cannot tell you how well the century has treated you,” he said, gallantly. “It has not been so kind to me.”
“Years are never unkind to men,” she responded. She smiled upon the adoring prince and turned again to Quentin. “Tell me about New York, Phil. Tell me about yourself.”
“I can only say that New York has grown larger and better, and that I have grown older and worse. Mrs. Garrison may doubt that I could possibly grow worse, but I have proof positive. I am dabbling in Wall street.”
“I can imagine nothing more reprehensible,” said Mrs. Garrison, amiably. Quentin swiftly renewed his opinion of the mother. That estimate coincided with the impression his youth had formed, and it was not far in the wrong. Here was the mother with a hope loftier than a soul. Purse-proud, ambitious, condescending to a degree—a woman who would achieve what she set out to do at all hazards. Less than fifty, still handsome, haughty and arrogant, descended through a long line of American aristocracy, calm, resourceful, heartless. For fifteen years a widow, with no othe
r object than to live at the top and to marry her only child into a realm far beyond the dreams of other American mothers. Millions had she to flaunt in the faces of an astonished, marveling people. Clever, tactful, aggressive, capable of winning where others had failed, this American mother was respected, even admired, in the class to which she had climbed. Here was the woman who had won her way into continental society as have few of her countrywomen. To none save a cold, discerning man from her own land was she transparent. Lord Bob, however, had a faint conception of her aims, her capacity.
As they walked on, Quentin scarcely took his eyes from Miss Garrison’s face. He was wearing down the surprise that the sweetheart of his boyhood had inspired, by deliberately seeking flaws in her beauty, her figure, her manner. After a time he felt her more wonderful than ever. Lord Bob joined the party, and Quentin stopped a second to speak to him. As he did so Prince Ugo was at Miss Garrison’s side in an instant.
“So she is the girl that damned Italian is to elevate?” said Mr. Quentin to himself. “By George, it’s a shame!” He did not see Lord Bob and his wife exchange a quick smile of significance.
As they all reached the corner, Quentin asked: “Are you in London for long, Dorothy?” Lady Frances thought his tone a trifle eager.
“For ten days or so. Will you come to see me?” Their eyes met and he felt certain that the invitation was sincerely given. “Lady Marnham is having some people in tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you’ll come then,” she added, and Phil looked crestfallen.
“I’ll come,” he said. “I want to tell you the story of my past life. You didn’t know I’d been prime minister of a South American republic, did you?”
She nodded and they separated. Prince Ugo heard the last words of the American, and a small, clear line appeared for an instant between his black eyebrows.
Lady Frances solemnly and secretively shook her finger at Quentin, and he laughed with the disdain of one who understands and denies without the use of words. Lord Bob had wanted to kick him when he mentioned South America, but he said nothing. Quentin was in wonderful spirits all the way home.
CHAPTER VI
DOROTHY GARRISON
Quentin was driving with Lady Saxondale to the home of Miss Garrison’s hostess. Phil’s fair, calculating companion said to herself that she had never seen a handsomer fellow than this stalwart American. There was about him that clean, strong, sweet look of the absolutely healthy man, the man who has buffeted the world and not been buffeted by the world. He was frank, bright, straightforward, and there was that always-to-be-feared yet ever-to-be-desired gleam of mastery in his eye. It may have been sometimes a wicked mastery, and more than one woman who admired him because she could not help herself had said, “There is a devil in his eyes.”
They found Lady Marnham’s reception hall full of guests, few of whom Quentin had seen before. He was relieved to find that the prince was not present, and he made his way to Dorothy’s side, with Lady Frances, coolly dropping into the chair which a young captain had momentarily abandoned. Lady Frances sat beside Miss Garrison on the divan.
“I am so glad you kept your promise, Phil, and came. It seems good to see you after all these years. You bring back the dear days at home,” said Dorothy, delight in her voice.
“From that I judge you sometimes long for them,” he said, simply. To Lady Frances it sounded daring.
“Often, oh, so very often. I have not been in New York for years. Lady Saxondale goes back so often that she doesn’t have the chance to grow homesick.”
“I hear you are going over this fall,” said Quentin, with a fair show of interest.
“Who—who told you so?” she asked, in some surprise. He could not detect confusion.
“Prince Ravorelli. At least, he said he expected to make the trip this fall. Am I wrong in suspecting that he is not going alone?”
“We mean to spend much of the winter in the United States, chiefly in Florida. I shall depend on you, Phil, to be nice to him in New York. You can do so much to make it pleasant for him. He has never been in New York, you know.”
“It may depend on what he will consider pleasant. I don’t believe he will enjoy all the things I like. But I’ll try. I’ll get Dickey Savage to give a dinner for him, and if he can survive that, he’s capable of having a good time anywhere. Dickey’s dinners are the real test, you know. Americans stand them because they are rugged and accustomed to danger.”
“You will find Prince Ugo rugged,” she said, flushing slightly, and he imagined he could distinguish a softness in her tone.
“I am told he is an athlete, a great horseman, a marvelous swordsman,” said Lady Frances.
“I am glad you have heard something about him that is true,” said Dorothy, a trifle quickly. “Usually they say that princes are all that is detestable and unmanly. I am sure you will like him, Phil.”
Mrs. Garrison came up at this moment with Lady Marnham, and Quentin arose to greet the former as warmly as he could under the smooth veil of hypocrisy. Again, just before Lady Frances signaled to him that it was time for them to leave, he found himself in conversation, over the teacups, with Dorothy Garrison. This time they were quite alone.
“It doesn’t seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I used to know,” he said, reflectively.
“Have I changed so much?” she asked, and there was in her manner an icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip Quentin.
“In every way. You were charming in those days.”
“And not charming now, I infer.”
“You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however, is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you were—”
“I don’t like flattery, Phil,” she said, hurt by what she felt to be an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.
“I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it, it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old friend, and an old—er—chum.”
“Won’t you have a cup of tea?” she asked, as calmly as if he were the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour.
“A dozen, if it pleases you,” he said, laughingly, looking straight into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and unfriendly.
“Then you must come another day,” she answered, brightly.
“I cannot come tomorrow,” he said.
“I did not say ‘tomorrow.’”
“But I’ll come on Friday,” he went on, decisively. She looked concerned for an instant and then smiled.
“Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday. I shall not be at home,” she said.
“But I am going back to New York next week,” he said, confidently.
“Next week? Are you so busy?”
“I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London. He says he’ll leave me if I stay here a month. I can’t afford to lose Turk.”
“And he can’t afford to lose you. Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are such jolly people.”
“How about the tea on Friday?”
“Oh, that is no consideration.”
“But it is, you know. You used to give me tea every day in the week.” He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew back wisely. “Let me come on Friday, and we’ll have a good, sensible chat.”
“On that one condition,” she said, earnestly.
“Thank you. Good-bye. I see Lady Frances is ready to go. Evidently I have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent. Everybody is looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes ago.”
He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting. Her swift, abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not observed, did not escape his eyes. She looked up and saw the peculiar smile on Quentin’s lips, and there was deep meaning in her next remark to him:
“You will meet the prince here on Friday. I
shall ask him to come early, that he may learn to know you better.”
“Thank you. I’d like to know him better. At what hour is he to come?”
“By 3:30, at least,” she said, pointedly. “Too early to be correct, you suspect?”
“I think not. You may expect me before three. I am not a stickler for form.”
“We shall not serve tea until four o’clock,” she said, coldly.
“That’s my hour for tea—just my hour,” he said, blithely. She could not repress the smile that his old willfulness brought to her lips and eyes. “Thank you, for the smile. It was worth struggling for.”
He was gone before she could respond, but the smile lingered as her eyes followed his tall figure across the room. She saw him pause and speak to Prince Ugo, and then pass out with Lady Saxondale. Only Lady Saxondale observed the dark gleam in the Italian’s eyes as he responded to the big American’s unconventional greeting. On the way home she found herself wondering if Dorothy had ever spoken to the prince of Philip Quentin and those tender, foolish days of girlhood.
“Has she lost any of the charm?” she asked.
“I am not quite sure. I’m to find out on Friday.”
“Are you going back on Friday?” in surprise.
“To drink tea, you know.”
“Did she ask you to come?”
“Can’t remember, but I think I suggested it.”
“Be careful, Phil; I don’t want you to turn Dorothy Garrison’s head.”
“You compliment me by even suspecting that I could. Her head is set; it can’t be turned. It is set for that beautiful, bejewelled thing they call a coronet. Besides, I don’t want to turn it.”
“I think the prince could become very jealous,” she went on, earnestly.
“Which would mean stilettos for two, I presume.” After a moment’s contemplative silence he said: “By Jove! she is beautiful, though.”
Quentin was always the man to rush headlong into the very thickest of whatever won his interest, whether it was the tender encounter of the drawing-room or the dangerous conflict of the field.
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