“His friends, too?  One of those chaps looks as if he might throw a bomb with beautiful accuracy—­the Laselli duke, I think.  Come, now, Frances, you’ll admit he’s an ugly brute, won’t you?”

“Yes, you are quite right, and I can’t say that the count impresses me more favorably.”

“I’ll stake my head the duke’s ancestors were brigands or something equally appalling.  A couple of poor, foolish American girls elevate them both to the position of money-spenders-in-chief though, I presume, and the newspapers will sizzle.”

At dinner that evening the discussion was resumed, all those at the table taking part.  The tall young American was plainly prejudiced against the Italian, but his stand was a mystery to all save Lord Bob.  Dickey Savage was laboriously non-committal until Lady Jane took sides unequivocally with Quentin.  Then he vigorously defended the unlucky prince.  Lady Saxondale and Sir James Graham, one of the guests, took pains to place the Italian in the best light possible before the critical American.

“I almost forgot to tell you, Phil,” suddenly cried Lady Saxondale, her pretty face beaming with excitement.  “The girl he is to marry is an old flame of yours.”

“Quite impossible, Lady Frances.  I never had a flame.”

“But she was, I’m sure.”

“Are you a theosophist?” asked Phil, gaily, but he listened nevertheless.  Who could she be?  It seemed for the moment, as his mind swept backward, that he had possessed a hundred sweethearts.  “I’ve had no sweetheart since I began existence in the present form.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Dickey, solemnly and impressively.

“I’ll bet my soul Frances is right,” drawled Lord Bob.  “She always is, you know.  My boy, if she says you had a sweetheart, you either had one or somebody owes you one.  You’ve never collected, perhaps.”

“If he collected them he’d have a harem,” observed Mr. Savage, sagely.  “He’s had so many he can’t count ’em.”

“I should think it disgusting to count them, Mr. Savage, even if he could,” said Lady Jane, severely.

“I can count mine backwards,” he said.

“Beginning at one?”

“Yes, Lady Jane; one in my teens, none at present.  No task, at all, to count mine.”

“Won’t you give me the name of that old sweetheart of mine, Lady Saxondale?  Whom is the prince to marry?” asked Quentin.

“Dorothy Garrison.  She lived in your block seven or eight years ago, up to the time she went to Brussels with her mother.  Now, do you remember?”

“You don’t mean it!  Little Dorothy?  By George, she was a pretty girl, too.  Of course, I remember her.  But that was ages ago.  She was fourteen and I was nineteen.  You are right, Lady Saxondale.  I’ll confess to having regarded her as the fairest creature the sun ever shone upon.  For six solid, delicious months she was the foundation of every thought that touched my brain.  And then—­well, what happened then?  Oh, yes; we quarrelled and forgot each other.  So she’s the girl who’s to marry the prince, is she?” Quentin’s face was serious for the moment; a far-off look of real concern came into his eyes.  He was recalling a sweet, dainty face, a girlish figure, and the days gone by.