"I'm Papa's daughter. But I don't intend to be Prince Dalmar-Kalm's step-daughter." I began to cry a little. "Why do you always try to thwart me when I want to be happy?" I asked. "That isn't fair to say. Look at my short dress and my hair in pigtails. There's proof enough of what I'm ready to do to make you happy. I let you be a Countess, and you may be a Princess if you can _buy_ the title, but no Princes on this ranch!" My blood was up, and I determined to fight. "Beechy," I exclaimed. "I guess I've a right to do as I like, and I _will_. It's for your good as well as mine, for me to marry a title, and I'm _going_ to. I shall say 'yes' when the Prince proposes." "He won't propose," said she, suddenly as cool as if she had been in a refrigerator. "He will, the minute I give him the opportunity, and I shall to-morrow; I don't care what you do." "I bet he won't. I'll bet you a good deal. Anything you like, except the long dress I've got in my trunk, and the package of hairpins in my grip." "What makes you think he won't?" I asked, worried by her manner, which was odd. "I know he won't." "You know the Prince will never propose to me?" She nodded. I flew at her, and took her by the shoulders, as if she'd been seven instead of--her present age. "You cruel girl!" I exclaimed. "You're going to tell him how old I am, and--and a lot of hateful things." "No, I'm not, and for a good reason. It wouldn't change his mind. So long as your banking account's all right, he wouldn't care if you were Methusaleh. I shan't tell him anything about you. I shan't mention your name. But he won't propose." "What _are_ you going to do?" I stammered. "That's my secret." "Oh, you have got something in your head?" She nodded again. "And up my sleeve." "You will poison his mind." "No, I won't. I shall only--play dolls." And she went on unfastening my waist. PART IV TOLD BY MAIDA DESTREY XVII A CHAPTER OF MOTOR MANIA What becomes of the beautiful army of days marching away from us into the past? The wonderful days, each one differing from all the others: some shining in our memory, in glory of purple and gold, that we saw only as they passed, with the setting of the sun; some smiling back at us, in their pale spring dress of green and rose; some weeping in grey; but all moving at the same pace along the same road? The strange days that have given us everything they had to give, and yet have taken from us little pieces of our souls. Where do the days go? There must be some splendid world where, when they have passed down to the end of the long road, they all live together like queens, waited upon by those black slaves, the nights that have followed them like their shadows, holding up their robes.