We have been very happy here in Spain.  I have run across a wonderful old room in a Spanish castle.  Ceiling, doors, fireplace, paintings, table, chairs and lanterns, I am transplanting.  What a setting for Nanca!

We are sailing for home.  Nanca is not so well as I could hope.  She grieves, I think, for the little girl in Florida.  There are times when I am bitterly jealous of those two other men.

There was a lapse of weeks in the letters.  Then came a long one from New York.

Grant came that night just after you had gone.  He has been with me a week.  His notions are more erratic than ever.  For instance, last night, while we were smoking, I told him the story of Prince Theodomir.  He was greatly interested.

“What a chance!” said he softly.  “What a chance, Norman, for wild commotion in your ridiculous little court.  I’ve been there.  It’s a kingdom of crazy patriots who grant freedom of marital choice to their princes to freshen and strengthen the royal blood; and they boast an ancient line of queens wiser than Catherine of Russia.  A hidden paper purporting to be a deathbed statement of Prince Theodomir’s—­this little daughter of Nanca and the artist—­and, Lord! what complications we could have immediately.  How easily she might have been the child of Theodomir and a princess!”

And sitting there by the table, Ann, he drew up an ingenious document couched in the stilted English of a foreigner.  Like most of Grant’s notions, it was infernally clever.  It suggested that my marriage to Nanca had been childless and that we had brought a child—­the daughter of Theodomir and Nanca—­away from the Indian village and had reared her with my name.  Then he showed me with a laugh where three conflicting meanings might be read from the stilted phrasing and eccentric punctuation.

“Drop that, old man,” said he, “into your chauvinistic little Punch and Judy court along with the name of the missing Theodomir and watch the blaze!”

After all, I do not think we will stay here in New York.  Nanca is not at all well.  She longs for trees and the open country.  We are coming up to the lodge.

* * * * * *

I’m glad Dad sent for you.  I think he is growing fonder of Carl, though of course his prejudices will probably always flash out now and then. . . .  He’s fond of us both, Ann, for all he raves so.  No word of Grant since that night of which you told me. . . .  I am sorry.

* * * * * *

You tell me Grant has written to you.  Tell him when you write—­to write to me.  I miss him.

* * * * * *

Grant has sent me a giant pair of candlesticks from Spain.  They are six feet tall, of age-old wood and Spanish carving.  He begs that they may stand in the Spanish room and makes some incoherent reference to you in connection with them, out of which I can’t for the life of me extract a grain of sense.  If you could have cared for him a little, Ann!