Word came in the afternoon that Mr. Partridge with his yacht _Meteor_ had won the America Cup at St. Louis. This evening was set for the Masquerade at Devonshire House, and there was to be a torch-light procession of the City Liveries. As to the palace, that was mostly concerned on Coronation eve with matters of apparel, the burnishing of jewels, nervous rehearsals, and feverish attempts at repose. In the portico, three saddled horses, overcome with heat, mouthed their chained bits, and swished their lazy tails. In the guardroom, midway upon the alabaster stairs, three gentlemen of the guard, Queen's orderlies in waiting, tried not to fall asleep. They had taken off their casques with the lions, but still that ridiculous chain mail was suffocating. They yawned for want of better occupation, talked to keep themselves in a state of decent wakefulness. "Ho-la," said MacNeill, rolling over in his chair, "I'll grill my other side now. By the bars of Hades I'd be cooler at home." MacNeill was half Spaniard, a banker's son from Venezuela. "Ali," he turned to the Indian prince who lounged by the wall, "you know all about this business to-morrow. What's it like?" Lazily the Prince lifted his eyes--big, soft, gentle eyes they were. "My dear MacNeill, what business?" "Why the Coronation, of course; weren't you crowned when they made you King of Haidar?" The Prince laughed easily. "It wasn't a crown, we have a green umbrella." "The ancestral gamp," said MacNeill, irreverently. "Is Haidar so wet? What do they worship--ducks?" "Allah, el Allah!" The Prince scarcely breathed the awful name, and his eyes were hard now. MacNeill apologized with much politeness, and asked if the State Umbrella was old. "Very old." Prince Ali smiled. "Holy?" "As my Faith." "Won't keep out the wet?" Still smiling, the Prince drew off his gauntlet, and swept it softly across MacNeill's face. So long Lord Sydney had watched Prince Ali in silence, now he came forward, and, with a little bow, laid claim to the gauntlet. "Your Highness," he said respectfully, "as a reigning sovereign cannot fight this cad, or he would never have dared to insult you. You," he said, turning upon MacNeill, "will apologize to the Maharajah or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life." "I didn't insult him," growled the offender, sulkily. "I don't understand what you're driving at." "My dear Prince," Lord Sydney turned his back upon MacNeill. "He would not understand more if I thrashed him." "You're quite right, Sydney," Prince Ali accepted the return of his gauntlet. "I have so few friends that one more," he clasped Lord Sydney's hand, "has the larger place in a full heart. I shall remember."