The older man did not answer at once, and Lawrence, feeling as if he had no right to listen, moved slowly backward till he touched the table. Then he turned suddenly and looked down quizzically into Shirley’s eyes. "You—understand?" he whispered gently. She nodded swiftly. "What must you think of me?" she murmured a little unsteadily. "I didn’t believe it at first, but they swore it—was true; and, somehow, things fitted in, and—and—— Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?" One hand stole across the table, and the strong brown fingers closed over the tiny gloved ones. "Did you really think I wouldn’t?" he questioned softly, gazing into her wonderful eyes with an expression in his own which swiftly brought her long lashes sweeping down on crimsoning cheek. "Well?" he queried as she made no answer. "I—I hoped," she faltered. It was the voice of the grand duke, weary, sorrowful, but full of an unmistakable resignation, which broke the silence. "I cannot blame you, Oscar," he was saying quietly. "I have clung to the old traditions because there seemed no other way—perhaps I lacked the courage to do what you have done—and my life turned to dust and ashes. I love you too well ever to wish to see that happen to you. Have you any—plans?" "Heaps of them, uncle," the prince answered jauntily. "I’m going to become an American citizen. I think I’ll buy a big place in the South and turn farmer. I’ve money enough." The two at the table saw the old man wince slightly, but in an instant he had recovered his composure. "What a thoroughbred he is!" Barry whispered admiringly. He had apparently forgotten to release Shirley’s hand, but she seemed too absorbed to notice the lapse. "There will be no difficulty on that score," the duke remarked. "Your estates belong to you personally, and their sale should net a million or more." Suddenly he gave a start and arose swiftly to his feet. "I beg your pardon, Oscar," he ejaculated, in chagrin. "My preoccupation has made me forget entirely my desire to meet your—wife. This lady is——" He glanced at Shirley with a courtly inclination, just in time to see her snatch her hand from Barry’s grasp and spring to her feet with blazing cheeks. The prince saw it, too, and his eyes twinkled. "I have not the honor," he said quietly. "My wife is just recovering from an illness which has been the cause of most of these complications. Mr. Lawrence, will you be so good as to present us?" With swiftly recovered composure, Shirley acknowledged the introduction with a naïve dignity; and, when they had all seated themselves again, the prince begged for a recital of Barry’s adventures.