Castle Craneycrow | Page 6

him, too, it seems. Do you know
him, Frances?"
"I've met him a number of times on the continent, but not often in
London. He is seldom here, you know. Really, he is quite a charming
fellow."
"Yes," laconically. "Are Italian princes as cheap as they used to be?
Mary Carrolton got that nasty little one of hers for two hundred
thousand, didn't she? This one looks as though he might come a little
higher. He's good-looking enough."
"Oh, Ugo is not like the Carrolton investment. You see, this one is
vastly rich, and he's no end of a swell in sunny Italy. Really, the match
is the best an American girl has made over here in--oh, in centuries, I
may say."
"Pocahontas made a fairly decent one, I believe, and so did Frances
Thornow; but, to my limited knowledge, I think they are the only
satisfactory matches that have been pulled off in the last few centuries.
Strange, they both married Englishmen."

"Thank you. You don't like Italian princes, then?"
"Oh, if I could buy a steady, well-broken, tractable one, I'd take him as
an investment, perhaps, but I believe, on the whole, I'd rather put the
money into a general menagerie like Barnum's or Forepaugh's. You get
such a variety of beasts that way, you know."
"Come, now, Phil, your sarcasm is unjust. Prince Ugo is very much of a
gentleman, and Bob says he is very clever, too. Did you see much of
him last night?"
"I saw him at the club and talked a bit with him. Then I saw him while I
slept. He is much better in the club than he is in a dream."
"You dreamed of him last night? He certainly made an impression,
then," she said.
"I dreamed I saw him abusing a harmless, overworked and underfed
little monkey on the streets of New York."
"How absurd!"
"The monkey wouldn't climb up to the window of my apartment to
collect nickels for the vilest hand-organ music a man ever heard, even
in a nightmare."
"Phil Quentin, you are manufacturing that dream as you sit here. Wait
till you know him better and you will like him."
"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