“Ah! Of course I know that you must refer to politics, Úr Molnár.” The name of a man or woman, unexpectedly introduced, can be made the vehicle of the subtlest flattery, of a half-timid hint of deepening interest, may even foreshadow a caress. Ranata’s rich voice uttered the commonplace name, with its long vowel, in a manner to mount to the head of any man. Wholly unused to the effort to please, she would have enjoyed this new exercise of power with all that was feminine in her nature, had the dynasty been rooted in the fires of the earth. Molnár was young, he was barely thirty. He was ardent and susceptible, and for the moment he was not in love. And although he hated the House of Hapsburg as passionately as ever his great master had done, still was he monarchical born; the soul that could hate kings and love liberty was haunted by the ghosts of ancestors who had lived and died in reverence of the Lord’s anointed. The poison was entering his nostrils. If Ranata had looked like most princesses doubtless he would have held sternly to his ideals. But she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her ineffable air of breeding, her sweet condescension, and the changing expression of her powerful eyes were pumping the blood to his head. He made a final grasp for his politics and his pride. “It is your happiness, madame, that you can afford to know nothing about politics.” “Ah! I wonder if I can? I have been much enlightened to-day. Enough so to understand your meaning. Should I not know more? Can any member of my family afford to misunderstand this most important part of our Empire? It is true that I am only a woman--but at least I have some influence with my father. Will you not advise me?” “Your Royal Highness,” stammered Molnár. “Your Royal-- Yes, of course you should understand our politics--would to Heaven that you did!” “Whom shall I ask? I am in a position to hear only one side. Ah!” Her face was radiant. “You will come to the palace and give us a little lecture. My ball is to-morrow night. We can arrange then for an hour when you are not too busy to talk to us.” “I cannot go to your ball, your Royal Highness--none of the Left will go.” “Not come to my ball? Why not?” “We never enter the palace.” “But my ball has nothing to do with politics. I am not your sovereign. I have my father’s permission to live here this winter because my American friend and I are so tired of Vienna, and I am so fascinated by your city. I wish to enjoy Budapest, Úr Molnár. Is my winter to be poisoned by party feeling?--of which I know too little. How illogical, and how ungallant! You will come and bring your colleagues to-morrow night? It is to be the great night of my life, and I am sure you will not spoil it.” “I? Ah!” Once more he braced himself. “I am afraid there will not be enough women to go round, your Royal Highness,” he said meaningly.