This was very bad.  Not, I mean, that the Prince should have said Bosh, for he was so great that there was not a Grand Duke in Europe to whom he might not have said it if he wanted to; but that Priscilla should have been in imminent danger of marriage.  Among Fritzing’s many preachings there had been one, often repeated in the strongest possible language, that of all existing contemptibilities the very most contemptible was for a woman to marry any one she did not love; and the peroration, also extremely forcible, had been an announcement that the prince did not exist who was fit to tie her shoestrings.  This Priscilla took to be an exaggeration, for she had no very great notion of her shoestrings; but she did agree with the rest.  The subject however was an indifferent one, her father never yet having asked her to marry anybody; and so long as he did not do so she need not, she thought, waste time thinking about it.  Now the peril was upon her, suddenly, most unexpectedly, very menacingly.  She knew there was no hope from the moment she saw her father’s face quite distorted by delight.  He took her hand and kissed it.  To him she was already a queen.  As usual she gave him the impression of behaving exactly as he could have wished.  She certainly said very little, for she had long ago learned the art of being silent; but her very silences were somehow exquisite, and the Grand Duke thought her perfect.  She gave him to understand almost without words that it was a great surprise, an immense honour, a huge compliment, but so sudden that she would be grateful to both himself and the Prince if nothing more need be said about it for a week or two—­nothing, at least, till formal negotiations had been opened.  “I saw him yesterday for the first time,” she pleaded, “so naturally I am rather overwhelmed.”

Privately she had thought, his eyes, which he had never taken off her, kind and pleasant; and if she had known of his having said Bosh who knows but that he might have had a chance?  As it was, the moment she was alone she sent flying for Fritzing.  “What,” she said, “do you say to my marrying this man?”

“If you do, ma’am,” said Fritzing, and his face seemed one blaze of white conviction, “you will undoubtedly be eternally lost.”

II

They fled on bicycles in the dusk.  The goddess Good Luck, who seems to have a predilection for sinners, helped them in a hundred ways.  Without her they would certainly not have got far, for both were very ignorant of the art of running away.  Once flight was decided on Fritzing planned elaborately and feverishly, got things thought out and arranged as well as he, poor harassed man, possibly could.  But what in this law-bound world can sinners do without the help of Luck?  She, amused and smiling dame, walked into the castle and smote the Countess Disthal with influenza, crushing her down helpless into her bed, and holding her there for days by the throat.  While one hand was doing this, with the other she gaily swept the Grand Duke into East Prussia, a terrific distance, whither, all unaware of how he was being trifled with, he thought he was being swept by an irresistible desire to go, before the business of Priscilla’s public betrothal should begin, and shoot the roebucks of a friend.