The Adventure of Princess Sylvia

								

Englishman, even you admit his virtues."
"Don't speak as if I were bristling with English prejudices," scolded
the Grand Duchess. "I ceased to be English when I married your father.
But why did you never mention this--er--desire of yours before?"
"I am far too maidenly," responded Sylvia, "to give my feeling any
such bold name. I have not ceased to be English, if my mother has.
Indeed, I give my feeling no name at all. I haven't spoken of it if
there be an 'it' to speak of--before, simply because really I'm not
crying for a particular toy to play with. I'm only saying, if I can't
have that, I won't have another toy a poor, unworthy toy."
"You call Prince Henri d'Ortens a 'poor, unworthy toy?'"
"Compared with the Emperor of Rhaetia and compared with me. Look at
me, mother. Would I not make an empress?"
Sylvia laughed, sprang up from the seat that girdled the great trunk
of the Lebanon cedar, and stood with her bright head erect, her lips
still smiling.
The August sun streamed down upon the girl and bathed her in its
glory. Her hair was a network of spun gold, under its radiance; her
dark eyes jewels; her skin roses and snow; her simple white muslin
gown a dazzling robe fit for a fairy, rather than an earthly princess.
Yes, she would make an empress, or she would make a goddess. So a man
must have thought, even if he had not dared to love her. And so
thought her mother.
"The dear Queen has never really favoured poor Henri," murmured the
Grand Duchess, a light of introspection in her eyes. Already the
French Prince, with pretensions to the incomparable hand of Sylvia,
was "poor Henri." "I mean, she has never favoured him as a match for
you, though she intimated to me yesterday that she saw no
insurmountable objections--if you cared for each other--"
"But we don't. At least I don't. Which is all that signifies."
"Pray do not be so flippant. As for Maximilian of Rhaetia, it is
perhaps natural that he has never been thought of in connection with
you, my dear. He is, no doubt, the most sought after parti in--well,
yes, I may say in the world. Not a girl with Royal blood in her veins
but would go on her knees to him--"
"I would not," cried Sylvia. "I might worship him, but he should go on
his knees to me."
"I doubt if those knees will ever bend to man or woman," said the
Grand Duchess. "That, however, is a mere matter of speech. I am
serious now, and I wish you to be. Though you are a very beautiful
girl, my child--there is no disguising that fact from you, as it has
been dinned into your ears since you were old enough to understand--
and there is no better blood in Europe than runs in your veins; still,
our circumstances are--er--unfortunately such that--that we are, for
the present, slightly handicapped."
"We're beggars," said Sylvia. "But Cophetua married a beggar maid;"
and she smiled.
"Pray don't liken yourself to any such persons, my dear," objected