“Then we must try to make it also an unexpected pleasure,” suggested the prince lightly.  “I am come to ask you to spend the day with me in looking about Med, the King’s City.”

He dropped the monogrammed stub of his cigarette in a little jar of smaragdos, brought, he mentioned in passing, from a despoiled temple of one of the Chthonian deities of Tyre, and turned toward his guests with a winning smile.

“Come,” he said, “I can no longer postpone my own pleasure in showing you that our nation is the Lady of Kingdoms as once were Babylon and Chaldea.”

It was as if the strange panorama of the night before had once more opened its frame, and they were to step within.  As the prince left them St. George turned to Rollo for the novelty of addressing a reality.

“How do you wish to spend the day, Rollo?” he asked him.

Rollo looked pensive.

“Could I stroll about a bit, sir?” he asked.

“Stroll!” commanded St. George cheerfully.

“Thank you, sir,” said Rollo.  “I always think a man can best learn by observation, sir.”

“Observe!” supplemented his master pleasantly, as a detachment of the guard appeared to conduct Amory and him below.

“Don’t black up the sandals,” Amory warned Rollo as he left him, “and be back early.  We may want you to get us ready for a mastodon hunt.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rollo with simplicity, “I’ll be back quite some time before tea-time, sir.”

St. George was smiling as they went down the corridor.  He had been vain of his love that, in Yaque as in America, remained the thing it was, supreme and vital.  But had not the simplicity of Rollo taken the leap in experience, and likewise without changing?  For a moment, as he went down the silent corridors, lofty as the woods, vocal with faint inscriptions on the uncovered stone, the old human doubt assailed him.  The very age of the walls was a protest against the assumption that there is a touchstone that is ageless.  Even if there is, even if love is unchanging, the very temper of unconcern of his valet might be quite as persistent as love itself.  But the gallery emptying itself into a great court open to the blue among graven rafters, St. George promptly threw his doubt to the fresh, heaven-kissing wind that smote their faces, and against mystery and argument and age alike he matched only the happy clamour of his blood.  Olivia Holland was on the island, and all the age was gold.  In Yaque or on the continents there can be no manner of doubt that this is love, as Love itself loves to be.

They emerged in the appeasing air of that perfect morning, and the sweetness of the flowering trees was everywhere, and wide roads pointed invitingly to undiscovered bournes, and overhead in the curving wind floated the flags and streamers of those joyous, wizard colours.