When at length, conscious of the electric constraint of the atmosphere, Ronador wheeled uncomfortably and met Philip’s level glance, he stared and reddened, hot insolent anger in the flash of his eyes and the curl of his lips.

“Dear me!” faltered Aunt Agatha, guiltily conscious of the letter, “I am surprised, I am indeed!  Who ever would have thought of seeing you here, Prince, among the trees and—­and the ground doves and—­and all the lilies!” The unfortunate lady, convinced by now that Ronador’s apparent resentment concerned, in some inexplicable way, her escort, herself and the lilies, glanced beseechingly about her.  “And what with the lilies,” she burst forth desperately in apology for the inopportune arrival of herself and her escort, “what with the lilies, Prince, and the water so wet—­though, dear me! it was not to be wondered at, of course—­growing wild in the water that way—­and only one gown and the hand bag—­though to be sure I can’t wear the hand bag, and wouldn’t if I could—–­Mr. Poynter, with his usual courtesy was good enough to carry the lilies into camp when I asked him.”

“Mr. Poynter was undoubtedly very good, Aunt Agatha,” said Diane quietly, “but the lilies scarcely require any further attention.”

Still Mr. Poynter did not stir.

“I regret exceedingly,” he said formally to Diane, “that I am unable to avail myself of your cordial permission to retire.  Unfortunately, I have urgent business with Prince Ronador.  Indeed, I have waited for just such an opportunity as this.”

He was by far the calmest of the four.  Ronador’s violent temper was rapidly routing his studied composure.  Diane’s lovely face was flushed and indignant.  Aunt Agatha, making a desperate pretense of sorting the lilies, was plainly in a flutter and willing to be tearfully repentent over their intrusion.  Not so Philip.  There was satisfaction in his steady glance.

“There is scarcely any business which I may have with—­er—­Tregar’s secretary,” said Ronador with deliberate insolence, “which may not be more suitably discharged by Tregar himself.”

There was a biting suggestion of rank in his answer at which Philip smiled.

“My spread-eagle tastes,” he admitted, “have always protected my eyes from the bedazzlement frequently incident to the sight of royalty.  Nor do I wish to flaunt unduly my excellent fortune in being born an American and a democrat, but for once.  Prince, we must overlook your trifling disadvantage of caste and meet on a common footing.  Permit me to offer my humble secretarial apology that the business is wholly mine—­and one other’s—­and not my chief’s.”

Here Aunt Agatha created a singular diversion by dropping the lilies and gurgling with amazement.

“God bless my soul!” she screamed hysterically, conscious that her indiscretion was rapidly weaving a web around her which might not find favor in her niece’s eyes, “it’s Baron Tregar!  I know his beard.”