“But why should it affect your nerves? You are English, you do not drink absinthe?” She was still looking him over in the light of a curious medical problem, and her tone was full of interest. “I hope you don’t intend to catechise me upon my private vices,” said Caerleon, hastily. “What I said was only in joke. I don’t know what nerves are.” “A joke?” Evidently it had not occurred to her that any one could take such a liberty on such short acquaintance. “But I do not even know your name, sir.” “And is it necessary to know a man’s name before he may make a joke in conversation with you?” asked Caerleon, laughing, but she did not hear him. “I know you must be one of the English noblemen who are staying in the hotel, and you cannot be the brother--he is small and delicate, my father said so. You are, then, the pretender?” “The pretender?” asked Caerleon in astonishment. “I beg your pardon--I should have remembered that the word has a worse meaning in English than in French. The aspirant, I should say--the aspirant to the throne of Thracia?” “Well, I was, a year ago; or rather the throne of Thracia aspired to me. I refused it, you know.” “I remember; I was sorry. But you are going to accept it now?” “Now? I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t a thought of it.” “Then why are you here?” “Here? in Hungary? To visit my friend, Count Temeszy.” “But you are on your way to Thracia?” “I assure you I am not. What can have put it into your head?” “Every one thinks so. My parents quite believe it--and so do others.” “Then they are mistaken, that’s all.” “But why do you stay here, since Count Temeszy is away? You leave soon?” “Not that I know of. Why should we?” “Sir,” her voice was very earnest, “will you be angry if I give you a warning? If there is no special reason to keep you here, do not remain. My father is not--is not a good friend for young men.” “A card-sharper, of course!” was the thought that darted through Caerleon’s mind. “It’s good of her to tell me, poor girl!” Aloud he added, “Thank you for your warning, mademoiselle. Perhaps you would be so kind as to mention to your father that I don’t carry the revenues of Thracia about with me.” “You won’t understand,” cried the girl, passionately; “it is nothing about money. Consider what political disturbances your acceptance of the crown might bring about, and that there are those who will suspect you of desiring to provoke them so long as you remain in this part of Europe, however innocent your motives may be. I remember that when the crown was offered to you last year, the affair was much discussed in our circle. I myself heard Count Wratisloff say in my godmother’s drawing-room, ‘Here is the peace of Europe hanging upon the caprice of a boy!’” “I am much obliged to him,” said Caerleon, grimly.