Near noon a tiny boat darted from shore. The captain hurried to the head of the miniature stairway; Vasili uttered a hasty excuse and also went in that direction. Allard hesitated, in some doubt before this new etiquette, then judged by the others' attitude and remained where he was. As Stanief stepped on the deck, another gorgeous flag rose majestically into place and unfolded its emblazoned notice of his presence. His drowsy black eyes swept over the scene comprehensively, then he gave a brief order to the captain and crossed directly to Allard. And Allard, rising to receive him, suddenly felt his heart quicken with a strange, familiar violence. "We Allards love more than other people," Robert had said. This was what he was giving Stanief, he realized with something like dismay,--that passion of fierce un-English intensity which considered nothing and made him its plaything. He had not meant to care like that again-- "Good morning, John," said the cool, faintly imperious voice; the warmly dark eyes met his. Sighing, Allard yielded up the last resistance and gave his all. "Your Royal Highness--" he murmured, and hated himself for the unsteadiness of his tone. Stanief sank into a chair and waved him to the one opposite. "We are going to sail at once," he announced. "We will watch our progress out of the harbor and then have lunch. You have passed an agreeable morning?" "Yes--no," answered Allard incoherently, taken by surprise. "That is, everything is right now." Interpreting for himself, Stanief smiled. "Tell me about it," he suggested. The ringing of anchor chains ceased, the little launch again swung in its davits. The yacht shuddered, moved. Vasili came up and saluted rigidly. "I have the honor to report that we sail." Stanief rested his dark head against the chair-back and met the brilliant gray eyes with the sweet serenity of his own. CHAPTER VI "THE KING IS DEAD--LONG LIVE THE KING" The ennuied Count Rosal lunched with them,--a sallow, fatigued young patrician who wore a pince-nez. He obviously was much pleased by the American, and inquired anxiously whether he ever motored. Receiving an affirmative reply, he invited him, with an actual approach to enthusiasm, to try a new French car as soon as they landed. Allard accepted willingly, even gaily; a little of his color had revived with the ocean wind, some fine elixir had mounted through his veins as the yacht drew from the arms of the harbor and danced out over the long Atlantic swell. After luncheon Stanief dismissed the third member of their party with that nonchalant grace of his. "Did you write any letters this morning?" he asked, when the salon had settled into its usual repose. "One; to my brother."