“Ye-es, but you’ll have to be quite sure about it.” “I’ll see to that. Where did you leave the King?” “On the second terrace. He was real sorry to have to say what he did, but I was so mad I wouldn’t stop,” said Félicia, with a curious kind of self-satisfaction. “It must be real nice to be able to love folks according to what they can give you!” soliloquised Maimie, as she went in search of the King. “She would accept Usk when there was no other man in view, but now the Baron holds the winning cards--unless there should be any fascinating emperors around before we get things fixed. But here’s the lucky man!” King Michael was walking from end to end of the terrace, smoking moodily. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and the blackest possible frown was on his brow. He was hard hit, Maimie saw, and scarcely likely to welcome the appearance of the person to whom he might consider that he owed his present unhappy frame of mind, but she met him boldly. “Say, Baron,” she said, placing herself in his path, “is it true you’ve told my Félicia you love her, but can’t marry her?” “It is, mademoiselle. If you have chosen this terrace as a promenade, I will go elsewhere.” “Well, if I was a king, I guess I’d marry the woman I loved.” “Pardon me, I am not only a king. I am a son of the house of Schwarzwald-Molzau, and we do not mingle the blood of Charlemagne with that of--manufacturers.” “And so you sigh as a lover and obey as a son? But you wanted to marry Lord Usk’s sister once, I know, for Mr Hicks told me.” The King’s eyes flashed gloomily. “I do not understand this catechism,” he said angrily. “It is intolerable! The Mortimer blood is equal to that of any semi-royal house in Europe, and there were special reasons why a marriage with Lady Philippa would have been very pleasing to my subjects.” “Well, I guess a marriage with a Princess of Arragon would about satisfy them, any way.” “Not if she were a Catholic.” “Is that so? Well, the girl you have just told that you love her and can’t marry her is a Princess of Arragon and a Protestant.” “Impossible. I know the Prince of Arragon’s three daughters well, and Don Florian’s only daughter is married to another cousin of mine.” “You are forgetting. There was a third brother.” “Don José? But he was not married. Oh, I remember there was some talk of a morganatic marriage. But that is not to the purpose.” “Excuse me, but I guess it’s very much to the purpose.” “Allow me to say that you do not know how these things are regarded--how I regard them, necessarily.” “But suppose the marriage was recognised? Wait, I’ll tell you about it,” and she ran through the circumstances hastily. “If the marriage was good enough for the Arragon family to accept Félicia as one of themselves, I guess it would be good enough for you?” “Undoubtedly; but I do not see the faintest likelihood that the House of Albret would recognise the marriage.”