I was very busy; and, if the truth must be told, I was not particularly excited about visiting the princess. In fact, I rather dreaded it, for I am not particularly keen about fawning and kotowing to royalty or anything else; but I decided that out of respect for Kamlot’s feelings I must get the thing over as soon as possible, and after he had left to attend to some duty, I made my way to the quarters allotted to Duare on the second deck. The Amtorians do not knock on a door—they whistle. It is rather an improvement, I think, upon our custom. One has one’s own distinctive whistle. Some of them are quite elaborate airs. One soon learns to recognize the signals of one’s friends. A knock merely informs you that some one wishes to enter; a whistle tells you the same thing and also reveals the identity of your caller. My signal, which is very simple, consists of two short low notes followed by a higher longer note; and as I stood before the door of Duare and sounded this, my mind was not upon the princess within but upon another girl far away in the tree city of Kooaad, in Vepaja. She was often in my mind—the girl whom I had glimpsed but twice, to whom I had spoken but once and that time to avow a love that had enveloped me as completely, spontaneously, and irrevocably as would death upon some future day. In response to my signal a soft, feminine voice bade me enter. I stepped into the room and faced Duare. At sight of me her eyes went wide and a quick flush mounted her cheeks. “You!” she exclaimed. I was equally dumfounded—she was the girl from the garden of the jong! XII “A SHIP!” What a strange _contretemps_! Its suddenness left me temporarily speechless; the embarrassment of Duare was only too obvious. Yet it was that unusual paradox, a happy _contretemps_—for me at least. I advanced toward her, and there must have been a great deal more in my eyes than I realized, for she shrank back, flushing even more deeply than before. “Don’t touch me!” she whispered. “Don’t dare!” “Have I ever harmed you?” I asked. That question seemed to bring her confidence. She shook her head. “No,” she admitted, “you never have—physically. I sent for you to thank you for the service you have already rendered me; but I did not know it was _you_. I did not know that the Carson they spoke of was the man who—” She stopped there and looked at me appealingly. “The man who told you in the garden of the jong that he loved you,” I prompted her. “Don’t!” she cried. “Can it be that you do not realize the offensiveness, the criminality of such a declaration?” “Is it a crime to love you?” I asked. “It is a crime to tell me so,” she replied with something of haughtiness. “Then I am a confirmed criminal,” I replied, “for I cannot help telling you that I love you, whenever I see you.”