"Decidedly not. Something strikes me that I shall miss fire." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Pembroke. "I have been thinking it over, and I've come to the conclusion that it would not be a bad plan to rid this world of a man like your Prince. It'll all come out right in the end. You will wed the Princess Hildegarde just as sure as--as I will not wed her sister." He spoke the last words rapidly, as though afraid of them. "I shall never marry the Princess Hildegarde," said I. "She has gone." "Gone? Where?" "It matters not where. Suffice it is that she has gone. Pembroke, you and I were very unfortunate fellows. What earthly use have Princesses for you and me? The little knowledge of court we have was gotten out of cheap books and newspaper articles. To talk with Kings and Princesses it requires an innate etiquette which commoners cannot learn. We are not to the manner born. These Princesses are but candles; and now that we have singed our mothy wings, and are crippled so that we may not fly again, let us beware. This may or may not be my last night on earth. . . . Let us go to the opera. Let us be original in all things. I shall pay a prima donna to sing my requiem from the footlights--before I am dead." "Jack!" cried Pembroke, anxiously. "Oh, do not worry," said I. "I am only trying to laugh--but I can't!" "Are you truly serious about going to the opera?" he asked. "Yes. Hurry and dress," said I. I leaned against the mantel and stared into the flickering tongues of flame. A caprice? I read the letter again, then threw it into the grate and watched the little darts of light devour it. Now and then a word stood out boldly. Finally the wind carried the brown ashes up the chimney, I would keep the other letter--the one she had asked for--and the withered rose till the earth passed over me. She was a Princess; I was truly an adventurer, a feeble pawn on the chess-board. What had I to do with Kings and bishops and knights? The comedy was about to end--perhaps with a tragedy. I had spoken my few lines and was going behind the scenes out of which I had come. As I waited for Pembroke the past two years went by as in a panorama. I thought of the old lawyer and the thousand-dollar check; the night at the opera with Phyllis; the meeting of Hillars and his story. "When there is nothing more to live for, it is time to die." If there was such a place as Elysium in the nether world, Hillars and I should talk it all over there. It is pleasant to contemplate the fact that when we are dead we shall know "the reason why." "Come along," said Pembroke, entering.