“Promise me something,” begged St. George softly, in sudden alarm, born of this inevitable aspect; “promise me that when we get to New York you are not going to forget all about Yaque—­and me—­and believe that none of us ever happened.”

Olivia looked toward the serene mystery of the distance.

“New York,” she said only, “think of seeing you in New York—­now.”

“Was I of more account in Yaque?” demanded St. George anxiously.

“Sometimes,” said Olivia adorably, “I shall tell you that you were.  But that will be only because I shall have an idea that in Yaque you loved me more.”

“Ah, very well then.  And sometimes,” said St. George contentedly, “when we are at dinner I shall look down the table at you sitting beside some one who is expounding some baneful literary theory, and I shall think:  What do I care?  He doesn’t know that she is really the Princess of Far-Away.  But I do.”

“And he won’t know anything about our motor ride, alone, the night that I was kidnapped, either—­the literary-theory person,” Olivia tranquilly took away his breath by observing.

St. George looked up at her quickly and, secretly, Olivia thought that if he had been attractive when he was courageous he was doubly so with the present adorably abashed look in his eyes.

“When—­alone?” St. George asked unconvincingly.

She laughed a little, looking down at him in a reproof that was all approbation, and to be reproved like that is the divinest praise.

“How did you know?” protested St. George in fine indignation.  “Besides,” he explained, “I haven’t an idea what you mean.”

“I guessed about that ride,” she went on, “the night before last, when you were walking up and down outside my window.  I don’t know what made me—­and I think it was very forward of me.  Do you want to know something?” she demanded, looking away.

“More than anything,” declared St. George.  “What?”

“I think—­” Olivia said slowly, “that it began—­then—­just when I first thought how wonderful that ride would have been.  Except—­that it had begun a great while before,” she ended suddenly.

And at these enigmatic words St. George sent a quick look over the forward deck.  It was of no use.  Mr. Frothingham was well within range.

“Heavens, good heavens, how happy I am,” said St. George instead.

“And then,” Olivia went on presently, “sometimes when there are a lot of people about—­literary-theory persons and all—­I shall look across at you, differently, and that will mean that you are to remember the exact minute when you looked in the window up at the palace, on the mountain, and I saw you.  Won’t it?”

“It will,” said St. George fervently.  “Don’t try to persuade me that there wasn’t any such mountain,” he challenged her.  “I suppose,” he added in wonder, “that lovers have been having these secret signs time out of mind—­and we never knew.”