It is a matter of life and death to him. And
it's no more to you than the choosing of a new coat."
Lucy smiled and sketched in a priest on the church
steps. Her hand shook, but Jean could not see that. She
went to the window again with something like an inward
oath at the dolts of commonplace women who had all the
best chances, but was back in a moment, laughing
nervously.
"Do you know he has on that old brown suit?" She leaned
against the jamb of the door. "If I were a prince, and
came a-wooing, I would have troops of my Jagers, and
trumpets and banners with the arms of my House, and I'd
wear all my decorations. Of course we Americans are
bound to say that rank and royalty are dead things. But
if I had them, I'd galvanize the corpses! If they are
useful as shows, I'd make the show worth seeing. I'd
cover myself with jewels like the old Romanoffs. You
would never see Queen Jean in a slouchy alpaca and
pork-pie hat like Victoria." While her tongue chattered,
her eyes watched Lucy keenly. "You don't hear me! You
are deciding what to do. Why on earth should you
hesitate? He is a gentleman--he loves you!" and then to
Lucy's relief she suddenly threw on her hat and rushed
off for a walk.
Miss Dunbar painted the priest's robe yellow, in her
agitation. But the agitation was not deep. There really
seemed no reason why she should hesitate. He would be
kind; he was well-bred and agreeable. A princess? She
had a vague idea of a glorified region of ancestral
castles and palaces in which dukes and royalties dwelt
apart and discoursed of high matters.
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