Penelope made her way into Mrs. Blaine-Harvey’s reception rooms, crowded with a stream of guests, who were sitting about, drinking tea and listening to the music, passing in and out all the time. Curiously enough, almost the first person whom she saw was the Prince. He detached himself from a little group and came at once towards her. He took her hand in his and for a moment said nothing. Notwithstanding the hours of strenuous consideration, the hours which she had devoted to anticipating and preparing for this meeting, she felt her courage suddenly leaving her, a sinking at the knees, a wild desire to escape, at any cost. The color which had been so long denied her streamed into her cheeks. There was something baffling, yet curiously disturbing, in the manner of his greeting. “Is it true?” he asked. She did not pretend to misunderstand him. It was amazing that he should ignore that other tragical incident, that he should think of nothing but this! Yet, in a way, she accepted it as a natural thing. “It is true that I am engaged to Sir Charles Somerfield,” she answered. “I must wish you every happiness,” he said slowly. “Indeed, that wish comes from my heart, and I think that you know it. As for Sir Charles Somerfield, I cannot imagine that he has anything left in the world to wish for.” “You are a born courtier, Prince,” she murmured. “Please remember that in my democratic country one has never had a chance of getting used to such speeches.” “Your country,” he remarked, “prides itself upon being the country where truth prevails. If so, you should have become accustomed by now to hearing pleasant things about yourself. So you are going to marry Sir Charles Somerfield!” “Why do you say that over to yourself so doubtfully?” she asked. “You know who he is, do you not? He is rich, of old family, popular with everybody, a great sportsman, a mighty hunter. These are the things which go to the making of a man, are they not?” “Beyond a doubt,” the Prince answered gravely. “They go to the making of a man. It is as you say.” “You like him personally, don’t you?” she asked. “Sir Charles Somerfield and I are almost strangers,” the Prince replied. “I have not seen much of him, and he has so many tastes which I cannot share that it is hard for us to come very near together. But if you have chosen him, it is sufficient. I am quite sure that he is all that a man should be.” “Tell me in what respect your tastes are so far apart?” she asked. “You say that as though there were something in the manner of his life of which you disapproved.” “We are sons of different countries, Miss Penelope,” the Prince said. “We look out upon life differently, and the things which seem good to him may well seem idle to me. Before I go,” he added a little hesitatingly, “we may speak of this again. But not now.” “I shall remind you of that promise, Prince,” she declared.