Lucian waxed wroth. He and Haidee had sworn eternal love and faithfulness--they had broken a coin in two, and she had promised to wear her half round her neck, and next to the spot where she believed her heart to be, for ever; moreover, she had given him a lock of her hair, and he carried it about, wrapped in tissue paper, and he had promised to buy her a ring with real diamonds in it. Also, Haidee already possessed fifteen sonnets in which her beauty, her soul, and a great many other things pertaining to her were praised, after love’s extravagant fashion--it was unreasonable of Sprats to talk as if this were an evanescent fancy that must needs pass. He let her see that he thought so. ‘All right, old chap!’ said Sprats. ‘It’s for life, then. Very well; there is, of course, only one thing to be done. You must act on the square, you know--they always do in these cases. If it’s such a serious affair, you must play the part of a man of honour, and ask the permission of the young lady’s mamma, and of her distinguished relative the Earl of Simonstower--mouldy old ass!--to pay your court to her.’ Lucian seemed disturbed and uneasy. ‘Yes--yes--I know!’ he answered hurriedly. ‘I know that’s the right thing to do, but you see, Sprats, Haidee doesn’t wish it, at present at any rate. She--she’s a great heiress, or something, and she says it wouldn’t do. She wishes it to be kept secret until I’m twenty. Everything will be all right then, of course. And it’s awfully easy to arrange stolen meetings at present; there are lots of places about the Castle and in the woods where you can hide.’ ‘Like a housemaid and an under-footman,’ remarked Sprats. ’Um--well, I suppose that’s inevitable, too. Of course the earl would never look at you, and it’s very evident that Mrs. Brinklow would be horrified--she wants the Dolly kid to marry into the peerage, and you’re a nobody.’ ‘I’m not a nobody!’ said Lucian, waxing furious. ‘I am a gentleman--an Italian gentleman. I am the earl’s equal--I have the blood of the Orsini, the Odescalchi, and the Aldobrandini in my veins! The earl?--why, your English noblemen are made out of tradesfolk--pah! It is but yesterday that they gave a baronetcy to a man who cures bacon, and a peerage to a fellow who brews beer. In Italy we should spit upon your English peers--they have no blood. I have the blood of the Cæsars in me!’ ‘Your mother was the daughter of an English farmer, and your father was a macaroni-eating Italian who painted pictures,’ said Sprats, with imperturbable equanimity. ‘You yourself ought to go about with a turquoise cap on your pretty curls, and a hurdy-gurdy with a monkey on the top. _Tant pis_ for your rotten old Italy!--anybody can buy a dukedom there for a handful of centesimi!’