“I was not thinking of myself, your Highness, or rather I was. I am not presentable. Look at me; my hat is out of shape, my clothes dusty, and I dare say that my face needs washing.”
The Presence replied to this remarkable defense with laughter, laughter in which Maurice detected an undercurrent of bitterness.
“Monsieur Carewe, you are not acquainted with affairs in Bleiberg, or you would know that I am a nobody. When I pass through the streets I attract little attention, I receive no homage. Enter: I command it.”
“I do command it,” imperiously. “And you would have pleased me more fully if you had accepted the invitation and not obeyed the command.”
“I withdraw all objections,” he said hastily, “and accept the invitation.”
Maurice, still uncovered, sat down on the front seat.
“Not there, Monsieur; beside me. Etiquette does not permit you to ride in front of me.”
As he took the vacant place beside her he felt a fire in his cheeks. The Voice and Presence were disquieting. As the groom touched the horses, Maurice was sensible of her sleeve against his, and he drew away. The Presence appeared unmindful.
“Yes, your Highness.” He tried to remember what he had said to her that day in the archbishop's garden. Two or three things came back and the color remounted his cheeks.
“Have you forgotten what you said to me?”
In all his life he never felt so ill at ease. To what did she refer? That he would be proud to be her friend? That if the princess was as beautiful as the maid he could pass judgment?
“Yes, you have forgotten. Do you not remember that you offered to be my friend?” She read him through and through, his embarrassment, the tell-tale color in his cheeks. She laughed, and there was nothing but youth in the laughter. “Certainly you are afraid of me.”
“I confess I am,” he said. “I can not remember all I said to you.”
Suddenly she, too, remembered something, and it caused the red of the rose to ripple from her throat to her eyes. “Poor dog! Not that they hated him, but because I love him!” Tears started to her eyes. “See, Monsieur Carewe; princesses are human, they weep and they love. Poor dog! My playmate and my friend. But for you they might have killed him. Tell me how it happened.” She knew, but she wanted to hear the story from his own lips.