Aleck did not move.  “I don’t want you to ‘talk to’ me about it; all I want is for you to say ‘yes.’”

“But I’m not going to say ‘yes;’ at least, I don’t think I am.  Do sit down.”

Aleck started straight for the gilt chair.

“Oh, no; not that!  You are four times too big for that chair.  Besides, it’s quite valuable; it’s a Louis Quinze.”

Aleck indulged in a vicious kick at the ridiculous thing, picked up an enormous leather-bottomed chair made apparently of lead, and placed it jauntily almost beside Miss Reynier’s chair, but facing the other way.

“This is much better, thank you,” he said.  “Now tell me why you think you are not going to say ‘yes’ to me.”

Melanie’s mood of softness had not left her; but sitting there, face to face with this man, face to face with his seriousness, his masculine will and strength, she felt that she had something yet to struggle for, some deep personal right to be acknowledged.  It was with a dignity, an aloofness, that was quite real, yet very sweet, that she met this American lover.  He had her hand in his firm grasp, but he was waiting for her to speak.  He was giving her the hearing that was, in his opinion, her right.

“In the first place,” Melanie began, “you ought to know more about me—­who I am, and all that sort of thing.  I am, in one sense, not at all what I seem to be; and that, in the case of marriage, is a dangerous thing.”

“It is an important thing, at least.  But I do know who you are; I knew long ago.  Since you never referred to the matter, of course I never did.  You are the Princess Auguste Stephanie of Krolvetz, cousin of the present Duke Stephen, called King of Krolvetz.  You are even in line for the throne, though there are two or three lives between.  You have incurred the displeasure of Duke Stephen and are practically an exile from your country.”

“A voluntary exile,” Melanie corrected.

“Voluntary only in the sense that you prefer exile to absolute submission to the duke.  There is no alternative, if you return.”

Melanie was silent.  Aleck lifted the hand which he held, touched it gently with his lips and laid it back beside its fellow on Melanie’s lap.  Then he rose and lifted both hands before her, half in fun and half in earnestness, as if he were a courtier doing reverence to his queen.

“See, your Highness, how ready I am to do you homage!  Only smile on the most devoted of your servants.”

Melanie could not resist his gentle gaiety.  It was as if they were two children playing at a story.  Aleck, in such a mood as this, was as much fun as a dancing bear, and in five minutes more he had won peals of laughter from Melanie.  It was what he wanted—­to brighten her spirits.  So presently he came back to the big chair, though he did not again take her hand.

“I knew you were titled and important, Melanie, and at first I thought that sealed my case entirely.  But you seemed to forget your state, seemed not to care so very much about it; and perhaps that made me think it was possible for us both to forget it, or at least to ignore it.  I haven’t a gold throne to give you; but you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry, and I wasn’t going to give up the chance until you said so.”