“The new guide-book has come. Wouldn’t you like to look at it?” she asked, beckoning him into the library. No sooner were they out of earshot of Prince Franz than she turned to him with tears in her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I only wished to save you pain.” “You are very good,” said Usk, “but I don’t quite understand----” “Oh, it was a portrait of the Princess Félicia, and an interview with her, in an American paper, and I knew it would bring it all back to you--all the pain. If----if----” she hesitated--“if it would comfort you at all to talk to me about her, please do. I am so very sorry for you.” “I’m afraid it wouldn’t,” said Usk, feeling rather guilty. “I thought if you felt that it wasn’t her fault--that she was coerced by her family--it might comfort you to say so.” “It was something much more vulgar than that--simply the desire for a crown.” Usk spoke with momentary fierceness, born of recollection. “Ah, you are bitter. I do not wonder. You have borne it all in such silence. I have felt for you, but I did not like to say anything, lest you might be beginning to forget. I hoped you might still be able to believe the best of her, for that is always a comfort, isn’t it?” “But you don’t,” objected Usk. “How could I, when she has made my friend suffer?” demanded Helene passionately. “But I would if it would comfort you,” she added. “You are too kind,” said Usk, with sufficient moodiness to satisfy her; and when he was alone he told himself again that he had been brought here on a fool’s errand. When Helene sent him the ring, she only meant to assure him of her sympathy under the treatment he had met with from Félicia. Hence it was somewhat disconcerting to Usk when his uncle appeared suddenly on the scene, for whereas he was quite satisfied to go on from day to day enjoying the present and not troubling about the future, it was only too probable that Cyril would look to hear something definite. He met the party as they came down from the mountains one evening, sunburnt and hungry after a long day’s wandering. The two girls had decorated themselves and the pony with wreaths of flowers, and even Prince Franz’s Tyrolese hat was ornamented with a garland which he was forbidden to remove on pain of his wife’s severe displeasure. Usk, in consideration of his nationality, was allowed to escape with a buttonhole, which Helene had made up for him with great care; and Princess Resi’s obedient husband hinted that he would not mind being an Englishman too for once. “But this is treason, disloyalty!” cried Theresia. “How shall we punish him, Lenchen? Oh, I know! If you say another word, Franz, we will put a wreath round your neck as well. We have plenty of flowers left.” “You have, indeed,” said a new voice, as Cyril came face to face with them at a turn of the path. “Princess Helene might be posing as Flora.”