there? He heard words but they had no meaning for him. "I will send you
the second volume of _The Fire and Sword_ trilogy," went on the prince.
"One of my ancestors figures in it. The hero--who is not exactly a hero,
perhaps, in the heroine's mind, for a time--does what he must do; he has
what he must have. He claims what nature made for him; he knows no other
law than that of his imperishable inner self. I, too, must rise to those
heights my eyes are set on. It must be; it is written. We are fatalists,
we Russians near the Tartar line! And you and I"--fervently--"were
predestined for each other."

Mr. Heatherbloom had but dimly heard the prince's words and failed to
grasp them; he didn't want to; his head was humming. Her light answer
sounded as if she might be very happy. Yes; naturally. She was made to
be happy, to dance about like sunshine. He liked to think of the
picture. The prince, too, was necessary to complete it; necessary,
reaffirmed Mr. Heatherbloom to himself, pulling with damp fingers at
the inconsequential lock of hair over his brow. Of course, if the prince
could be eliminated from that mental picture of her felicity?--but he
was a part of the composition; big, barbaric, romantic looking! In fact,
it wouldn't have been an adequate composition at all without him; no,
indeed!

And something rose in Mr. Heatherbloom's throat; one of his eyes--or was
it both of them?--seemed a little misty. That confounded soap! It was
strong; a bit of it in the corner of the eyes made one blink.

The two in the conservatory said something more; but the young man in
the "boudoir" didn't catch it at all well. By some intense mental
process, or the sound of the scrubber on the edge of the tub, he found
he could shut a definite cognizance of words almost entirely from his