The next morning Netty went for a walk in the Saski Gardens. The weather had changed suddenly. It was quite mild and springlike. At last the grip of winter seemed to be slackening. There were others in the gardens who held their faces up to the sky, and breathed in the softer air with a sort of expectancy; who seemed to wonder if the winter had really broken, or if this should only be a false hope. It was one of the first days in March--a month wherein all nature slowly stirs after her long sleep, and men pull themselves together to new endeavor. The majority of great events in the world's history have taken place in the spring months. Is not the Ides of March written large in the story of this planet? Netty had not been many minutes in the gardens when Prince Martin came to her. He had laid aside his fur coat for a lighter cloak of English make, which made him look thinner. His face, too, was thin and spare, like the face of a man who is working hard at work or sport. But he was gay and light-hearted as ever. Neither did he make any disguise of his admiration for Netty. “It is three days,” he said, “since I have seen you. And it seems like three years.” Which is the sort of remark that can only be ignored by the discreet. Besides, Prince Martin did not go so far as to state why the three days had been so tedious. It might be for some other reason altogether. “My uncle has been pressing us to go away,” said Netty, “to the south of France, to Nice, but----” “But what?” “Well,” answered Netty, after a pause, “you see for yourself--we have not gone.” “It is a very selfish hope--but I hope you will stay,” said Prince Martin. He looked down at her, and the thought of her possible departure caught him like a vise. He was a person of impulse, and (which is not usual) his impulse was as often towards good as towards evil. She looked, besides looking pretty, rather small and frail, and dependent at that moment, and all the chivalry of his nature was aroused. It was only natural that he should think that she had all the qualities he knew Wanda to possess, and, of course, in an infinitely higher degree. Which is the difference between one's own sister and another person's. She was good, and frank, and open. The idea of concealment between himself and her was to be treated with scorn. “I will tell you,” he said, “if at any time there is any reason why you cannot stay.” “But why should there be any reason--” she began, and a quick movement that he made to look round and see who was in sight, who might be within hearing, made her stop. “Oh! I do not want you to tell me anything. I do not want to know,” she said hurriedly. Which was the absolute truth; for politics bored her horribly. He looked at her with a laugh, and only loved her all the more, for persisting in her ignorance of those matters which are always better left to men. “I almost missed,” he said gayly, “an excellent opportunity of holding my tongue.”