Exactly what happened I could only guess at. I had reason to suppose that my young protector and medical attendant was wakened with some extra sense of flurry taking place. He evidently sat up in bed in reproachful despair. “What have I done?” said his brother. “What is the matter?” I heard tears in the plaintive little voice that answered—actual tears. “Oh!” he said, “I know you’ve wakened her! I know you have! It was so hard to get her to sleep. And at last I did, and then I was so afraid of wakening her that I went down on the floor and crawled out of the room on my hands and knees. And I think it took an hour.” “Darling,” I murmured, in the drowsiest possible tone, when he crept into the room to look at me, “I’ve had a lovely sleep, and I’m going to sleep again. You made me so quiet.” But with the most serious difficulty I restrained myself from clutching him in my arms with a force which would have betrayed to him all my adoring duplicity. It was things such as these I remembered when he was so deliciously amusing, and I heard stories of him every day. Sometimes, when swinging in my hammock on the piazza, I caught sight of him flying on his small bicycle down the tree-shaded avenue, a delightful, animated picture, his strong, graceful child body beautifully defined in his trim, closefitting Jersey suit, his red scarf and fez brilliant touches of color, his waving, flying hair brightened to gold as he darted through the sunshine and into the shade. I used to say to myself: “He is so good to look at! He is so pretty! That is why every one likes him so.” And then, when I heard him say some quaint thing which was an actual delight through its droll ingenuousness, I said: “It is because he is so amusing!” So I studied him day after day, often trying to imagine the effect his fearless candor and unsophisticated point of view would have upon certain persons who did not know his type. I was convalescing from my long illness, and had plenty of time to amuse myself with such speculations. He was such a patriotic young American; he was so engaged in an impending presidential election at the time; his remarks were so well worth hearing. I began, among other fancies about him, to imagine his making them with that frankly glowing face to conservative English people. He had English blood in his veins, and things more unheard-of had occurred than that, through a combination of circumstances, he might be surrounded by things very new to him. “When a person is a duke,” he had said to me once, “what makes him one? What has he done?” His opinion evidently was that dukedoms were a species of reward for superhuman sweetness of character and brilliant intellectual capacity. I began to imagine the interest that would be awakened in his mind by the contemplation of ducal personages.