"The Prince!" she exclaimed.
Sir Charles whispered something a little under his breath.
"I wonder," she remarked with apparent irrelevance, "whether he
dances."
"Shall I go and find out for you?" Sir Charles asked.
She had suddenly grown absent. She had the air of scarcely
hearing what he said.
"Let us stop," she said. "I am out of breath."
He led her toward the winter garden. They sat by a fountain,
listening to the cool play of the water.
"Penelope," Somerfield said a little awkwardly, "I don't want to
presume, you know, nor to have you think that I am foolishly
jealous, but you have changed towards me the last few weeks,
haven't you?"
"The last few weeks," she answered, "have been enough to change
me toward any one. All the same, I wasn't conscious of anything
particular so far as you are concerned."
"I always thought," he continued after a moment's hesitation,
"that there was so much prejudice in your country
against--against all Asiatic races."
She looked at him steadfastly for a minute.
"So there is," she answered. "What of it?"
"Nothing, except that it is a prejudice which you do not seem to
share," he remarked.
"In a way I do share it," she declared, "but there are
exceptions, sometimes very wonderful exceptions."
"Prince Maiyo, for instance," he said bitterly. "Yet a fortnight
ago I could have sworn that you hated him."
"I think that I do hate him," Penelope affirmed. "I try to. I
want to.
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