His blue eyes sparkling like opals in their ardor, looked down upon her with a tenderness too ineffable to matriculate. But he sighed and was silent. "And--and why do you hate the English?" "Hate the English? With you in my arms, sweet Verbie? Hate the English! Only I used to, Verbeena mine--used to. But----" "Who--who are you? Amut, as you love me speak!" "I----" "You----" "Am----" "Are----" "I--I can hold the secret back from you no longer, throbbing jewel of my passion. I----" "You----" "Am----" He doffed his turban and stood erect. He glanced fixedly into her uplifted eyes. "The Crown Prince!" "Crown Prince! Amut. Crown Prince of--of----" "Of Chermany!" "Mine Gott!" gasped Verbeena! "That partnership has been dissolved, Verbeena lieber. But as soon as Popper schnapps the manacles of Holland off him, a new and splendid project will be put in operation by us ever magnificent and glorious Hohenzollerns. New and great fortunes await us--here on the desert, Verbeenalina! You bet your life on that! What do you think? We intend to establish a chain of Imperial Breweries on the Sahara where everybody is always so thirsty. Isn't that great, Verbie? How's that for high?" "Great--but I--I am English!" "Aw--the war's over! Aw--come on, be a good little feller--I mean sweetheart. Stick along." "But your princess!" "The Sahara is a wide-spot and there ain't many princesses got the fare to Reno these days, Verbeenagaborden. And, besides, didn't you draw up a fine Saharatic marriage contract? In lots of desert love affairs in the novels they jolly well--how do you like my English so swell spoken to please you?--don't never get so far as a scrap of paper between them. Nothing between them--just nothing but----" Verbeena looked at him demurely. "True for you, Goldielocks," said she, adding with a courage that was easily tantamount to bravery, "I'd rather be respectable than a best seller any day! "But--who in the world are these people around you? Spaghetti--who is he?" "The only ferdombt Italian who stuck when the treaty busted. Popper was going to make him King of Rome or something good like that only for what happened." "And Hulda?" "Sh--the Grand Duchess Hautenglautenschlitzenburg! She's hiding!" "From what?" "That name." "But Mr. Hitchings--however did you come to have him for a friend?" "Verbeenaheimer," laughed the Crown Prince, "that wasn't Mr. Hitchings. It's Charlie of Austria. He expects to organize a circus troupe and enter Vienna with a large company of desert men, himself disguised as a dancing girl. Then some night they will burst from the tent and Charlie will pull his crown from under his skirts and--there you are! He'll be king again--for a minute. "But me and popper and the chain of breweries----" "Ah!" "Yah!"