my present offer), but I shall always look back to your acquaintance with pleasure.  I have, if you will allow me to say so, seldom met a young man with such natural gifts for finance and politics.  I shall anchor five miles out from Whittingham to-night (for I know you have no ships), and if you join me, well and good.  If not, I shall consider your decision irrevocable.

  “Believe me, dear Mr. Martin, faithfully
  yours,

  “MARCUS W. WHITTINGHAM,

  “President of the Republic of Aureataland.”

It is a pleasant thing, as has been remarked, laudari a laudato viro, and the President’s praise was grateful to me.  But I did not see my way to fall in with his views.  He said nothing about the money, but I knew well that its return would be a condition of any alliance between us.  Again, I was sure that he also “designed to marry the signorina,” and, if I must have a rival on the spot, I preferred McGregor in that capacity.  Lastly, I thought that, after all, there is a decency in things, and I had better stick to my party.  I did not, however, tell McGregor about the letter, merely sending him a line to say I had heard that The Songstress was hovering a few miles off, and he had better look out.

This done, I resumed my interrupted progress to the signorina’s.  When I was shown in, she greeted me kindly.

“I have had a letter from the President,” I said.

“Yes,” said she, “he told me he had written to you.”

“Why, have you heard from him?”

“Yes, just a little note.  He is rather cross with me.”

“I can quite understand that.  Would you like to see my letter?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied carelessly.

She read it through and asked: 

“Well, are you going over to him—­going to forsake me?”

“How can you ask me?  Won’t you show me your letter, Christina?”

“No, John,” she answered, mimicking my impassioned tones.  “I may steal the President’s savings, but I respect his confidence.”

“You see what he says to me about McGregor.”

“Yes,” said the signorina.  “It is not, you know, news to me.  But, curious to relate, the colonel has just been here himself and told me the same thing.  The colonel has not a nice way of making love, Jack—­not so nice as yours nearly.”

Thus encouraged, I went and sat down by her.  I believe I took her hand.

“You don’t love him?”

“Not at all,” she replied.

I must beg to be excused recording the exact terms in which I placed my hand and heart at the signorina’s disposal.  I was extremely vehement and highly absurd, but she did not appear to be displeased.

“I like you very much, Jack,” she said, “and it’s very sweet of you to have made a revolution for me.  It was for me, Jack?”

“Of course it was, my darling,” I promptly replied.

“But you know, Jack, I don’t see how we’re much better off.  Indeed, in a way it’s worse.  The President wouldn’t let anybody else marry me, but he wasn’t so peremptory as the colonel.  The colonel declares he will marry me this day week!”