one of the casements, and looked over the aisles of flowering tree-tops to the grim, grey sides of Mount Khalak, inscrutable, inaccessible, now not even hinting at the walls and towers upon its secret summit.  He was thinking how heavenly curious it was that the most wonderful thing in his commonplace world of New York—­that is, his meeting with Olivia—­should, out here in this world of things wonderful beyond all dream, still hold supreme its place as the sovereign wonder, the sovereign delight.

“I dare say that means something,” he said vaguely to himself, “and I dare say all the people who are—­in love—­know what it does mean,” and at this his spirit of adventure must have nodded at him, as if it understood, too.

When, in a little time, Prince Tabnit appeared at the open door of the “porch of light,” it was as if he had parted from St. George in McDougle Street but the night before.  He greeted him with exquisite cordiality and his welcome to Amory was like a welcome unfeigned.  He was clad in white of no remembered fashion, with the green gem burning on his breast, but his manner was that of one perfectly tailored and about the most cosmopolitan offices of modernity.  One might have told him one’s most subtly humourous story and rested certain of his smile.

“I wonder,” he asked with engaging hesitation when he was seated, “whether I may have a—­cigarette?  That is the name?  Yes, a cigarette.  Tobacco is unknown in Yaque.  We have invented no colonies useful for the luxury.  How can it be—­forgive me—­that your people, who seem remote from poetry, should be the devisers and popularizers of this so poetic pastime?  To breathe in the green of earth and the light of the dead sun!  The poetry of your American smoke delights me.”

St. George smiled as he offered the prince his case.

“In America,” he said, “we devised it as a vice, your Highness.  We are obliged to do the same with poetry, if we popularize it.”

And St. George was thinking: 

“Miss Holland.  He has seen Miss Holland—­perhaps yesterday.  Perhaps he will see her to-day.  And how in this world am I ever to mention her name?”

But the prince was in the idlest and most genial of humours.  He spoke at once of the matters uppermost in the minds of his guests, gave them news of the party from New York, told how they were in comfort in the palace on the summit of Mount Khalak, struck a momentary tragic note in mention of the mystery still mantling the absence of the king and repeated the announcement already made by Cassyrus, the premier, that in two days’ time, failing the return of the sovereign, the king’s daughter would be publicly recognized, with solemn ceremonial, as Princess of Yaque.  Then he turned to St. George, his eyes searching him through the haze of smoke.

“Your own coming to Yaque,” he said abruptly, “was the result of a sudden decision?”

“Quite so, your Highness,” replied St. George.  “It was wholly unexpected.”