On his return to the parlors, Cara presented Benton to her ladies-in-waiting, the Countess Fernandez and the Countess Jaurez, who were to travel as Miss Carstow's aunts.
When there is a three-quarter moon and an atmosphere as subtle as perfume; when the walls of the city lose their ragged lines and melt into soft shadow shapes, relieved here and there by lights which the waters mirror, night and the Bay of Naples are not bad. Then the small boats which bob alongside are filled with picturesque beggars raising huge bunches of violets on bamboo poles to the deck rails, and the mingling of singing voices with guitars sets it all to music.
On the forward deck Benton stood leaning on the rail and looking toward the city. At his side was Cara Carstow. She was silent, but she shook her head, and the man's solicitous scrutiny caught the deepening thought-furrow between her eyes, and the twitching of her fingers.
He bent forward and spoke softly. "Cara, what is it?" She looked up and smiled. "I was remembering that I stood just here, once before," she said.
"Do you think," he asked quietly, "that there has been a moment since then that I have not remembered it? That night you belonged to me and I to you."
"I guess," she said rather wearily, "we don't any of us belong to ourselves or to those we love most. We just belong to Fate."
"Cara!" He gripped the rail tightly and his words fell evenly. "Over there in America, you admitted to me that you loved me. That was when you were not yet Queen of Galavia." He brought himself up with a sudden halt. She looked up as frankly as a child.
"I didn't admit it," she said. "We only admit things against our will, don't we? I told you gladly."
"And now--!" He held his breath as he looked into her eyes.
"Now I am the Queen of a hideous little Kingdom," she shuddered. "It wouldn't do for me to say it now, would it?"
"Oh!" The man leaned again heavily on the rail. The monosyllable was eloquent. Impulsively she bent toward him, then caught herself. For a moment she looked out at the water undulating under the moon like mother-of-pearl on a waving fan. "But it was all right to say I loved you then," she went on reflectively, after a pause. "I had a perfect right then to tell you that I loved you better than all the small total of the world beside, and--" her voice faltered for a moment--"and," with a musical laugh, she illogically added, "I have nothing to take back of what I then said, though of course I can't ever say it again."
