“Thanks, but I think I can look after my own opportunities.” “No, you can’t; not as king, with Drakovics and his spies always prowling about after you. Do you know that we had a fellow shadowing us last night?” “Yes, I felt sure at the time that we were being dogged.” “But why didn’t you say so?” “I didn’t want to make you nervous.” “Stuff!” cried Cyril, ungratefully. “You were afraid I should consider it wiser to give up the expedition and go back. Keep your thoughtfulness for Miss O’Malachy in future. After that piece of cheek, you don’t deserve a good turn, but I will mention that I am going down to the O’Malachys’ this morning to tell them about dear Louie’s commission. Shall I take any message from you?” “I’ll come too,” said Caerleon, promptly. “No, you won’t. You are due at the Hôtel de Ville, to hear old Drakovics spout from the balcony. It would be ‘Hamlet’ with Hamlet left out if you weren’t there. Well, shall I take her a bouquet in your name? No, that would be too pronounced--might be regarded by the family as a declaration. Shall I say anything to her for you?” “Yes; you can say that I mean to begin this very day the inquiry she suggested to me.” “All right; nothing like setting to work at once. Now, off you go to uniform and duty. I am the best off this morning.” Sauntering down to the hotel, Cyril came upon Louis and his father in the hall, waiting impatiently for Madame O’Malachy, who was going with them to hear the speeches in the market-place. Going up-stairs, he found Nadia in the sitting-room, arranging the flowers for the table, carefully and conscientiously, as she did everything, adding a spray here, and taking one away there, and holding up the vase to see the effect, then lifting everything out and beginning again. Before her stood a glass in which her mother had placed carelessly two or three blossoms and a spray or two of feathery fern, which seemed to have arranged themselves, but of which the effect was perfect. By the table stood Madame O’Malachy, buttoning her long gloves and criticising freely her daughter’s work. “You have no taste, Nadia. Surely it must be evident, even to you, that a brick is not the best model for a bouquet? Don’t pull the flowers about so much; you will ruin them, and I cannot afford any more to-day.” “I am commissioned to say that the hothouses at the palace are at your disposal, madame, if you would honour my brother by allowing him to send you some flowers,” said Cyril, coming forward.