Almost as he
asked himself the question, he smiled. To him it seemed a strange
proof of the danger in which a weaker man would stand of passing
under the yoke of this hateful Western civilization. To dream of
her--yes! To see her face shining upon him from every beautiful
place, to feel the delight of her presence with every delicious
sensation,--the warmth of the sunlight, the perfume of the
blossoms he loved! There was joy in this, the joy of the artist
and the lover. But to find her in his life, a real person, a
daughter of this new world, whose every instinct would be at war
with his--that way lay slavery! He brushed the very thought from
him.
As he reached the door of his house in St. James' Square, it
opened slowly before him. He had brought his own servants from
his own country, and in their master's absence sleep was not for
them. His butler spoke to him in his own language. The Prince
nodded and passed on. On his study table--a curious note of
modernism where everything seemed to belong to a bygone
world--was a cablegram. He tore it open. It consisted of one word
only. He let the thin paper fall fluttering from his fingers. So
the time was fixed!
Then Soto came gliding noiselessly into the room, fully dressed,
with tireless eyes but wan face,--Soto, the prototype of his
master, the most perfect secretary and servant evolved through
all the years.
"Master," he said, "there has been trouble here. An Englishman
came with this card.
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