“In three days’ time, at noon, in this the Hall of Kings,” he cried, letting each phrase fall as if he were its proud inventor, “immediately following the official recognition of Olivia, daughter of Otho I, as Hereditary Princess of Yaque, there will be solemnized, according to the immemorial tradition of the island last observed six hundred and eighty-four years ago by Queen Pentellaria, the marriage of Olivia of Yaque, to his Highness, Prince Tabnit, head of the House of the Litany, and chief administrator of justice. For the law prescribes that no unmarried woman shall sit upon the throne of Yaque. At noon of the third day will be observed the double ceremony of the recognition and the marriage.  May the gods permit the possible.”

There was a soft insistence of music from above, a stir and breath about the room, the premier backed away to his seat, and St. George, even with the horrified tightening at his heart, was conscious of a vague commotion from the vicinity of Mrs. Medora Hastings.  Then he saw the prince rise and turn to Olivia, and extend his hand to conduct her from the hall.  The great banquet room beyond the colonnade was at once thrown open, and there the court circle and the ministry were to gather to do honour to the new princess, whom Prince Tabnit was to lead to the seat at his right hand at the table’s head.

To the amazement of his Highness, Olivia made no movement to accept the hand that he offered.  Instead, she sat slightly at one side of the great glittering throne, looking up at him with something like the faintest conceivable smile which, while one saw, became once more her exquisite, girlish gravity.  When the music sank a little her voice sounded above it with a sweet distinctness: 

“One moment, if you please, your Highness,” she said clearly.

It was the first time that St. George had heard her voice since its good-by to him in New York.  And before her words his vague fears for her were triumphantly driven.  The spirit that he had hoped for was in her face, and something else; St. George could have sworn that he saw, but no one else could have seen the look, a glimpse of that delicate roguery that had held him captive when he had breakfasted with her—­several hundred years before, was it?—­at the Boris.  Ah, he need not have feared for her, he told himself exultantly.  For this was Olivia—­of America—­standing in a company of the women who seemed like the women of whom men dream, and whose presence, save in glimpses at first meetings, they perhaps never wholly realize.  These were the women of the land which “no one can define or remember.”  And yet, as he watched her now, St. George was gloriously conscious that Olivia not only held her own among them, but that in some charm of vividness and of knowledge of laughter, she transcended them all.

A ripple of surprise had gone round the room.  For all the air of the ultimate about the island-women, St. George doubted whether ever in the three thousand years of Yaque’s history a woman had raised her voice from that throne upon a like occasion.  And such a tender, beguiling, cajoling little voice it was.  A voice that held little remarques upon whatever it had just said, and that made one breathless to know what would come next.