“Well, for my part, I find my duty—­for such I consider it—­grows more irksome every day.  If I am in your way, you are no less in mine.  To make it short, you are now twenty-two years old, you chafe at restraint, you think yourself abundantly able to manage your own affairs.  Well—­I have no objection.”

Harry stared at me.

“You mean—­” he began.

“Exactly.”

“But, Paul—­”

“There is no need to discuss it.  For me, it is mostly selfishness.”

But he wanted to talk, and I humored him.  For two hours we sat, running the scale from business to sentiment, and I must confess that I was more than once surprised by a flash from Harry.  Clearly he was developing, and for the first time I indulged a hope that he might prove himself fit for self-government.

At least I had given him the rope; it remained for time to discover whether or not he would avoid getting tangled up in it.  When we had finished we understood each other better, I think, than we ever had before; and we parted with the best of feeling.

Three days later I sailed for Europe, leaving Harry in New York.  It was my first trip across in eighteen months, and I aimed at pleasure.  I spent a week in London and Munich, then, disgusted with the actions of some of my fellow countrymen with whom I had the misfortune to be acquainted, I turned my face south for Madrid.

There I had a friend.

A woman not beautiful, but eminently satisfying; not loose, but liberal, with a character and a heart.  In more ways than one she was remarkable; she had an affection for me; indeed, some years previously I had been in a way to play Albert Savaron to her Francesca Colonna, an arrangement prevented only by my constitutional dislike for any prolonged or sustained effort in a world the slave of vanity and folly.

It was from the lips of this friend that I first heard the name of Desiree Le Mire.

It was late in the afternoon on the fashionable drive.  Long, broad, and shady, though scarcely cool, it was here that we took our daily carriage exercise; anything more strenuous is regarded with horror by the ladies of Spain.

There was a shout, and a sudden hush; all carriages were halted and their occupants uncovered, for royalty was passing.  The coach, a magnificent though cumbersome affair, passed slowly and gravely by.  On the rear seat were the princess and her little English cousin, while opposite them sat the great duke himself.

By his side was a young man of five and twenty with a white face and weak chin, and glassy, meaningless eyes.  I turned to my companion and asked in a low tone who he was.  Her whispered answer caused me to start with surprise, and I turned to her with a question.

“But why is he in Madrid?”

“Oh, as to that,” said my friend, smiling, “you must ask Desiree.”

“And who is Desiree?”