"Ohlau!" exclaimed the lady, in a whisper. Then she nestled back upon
the sofa and bit the fragment of lace she called her handkerchief.

"So there's an end of Mr. Wogan," she said pleasantly.

Whittington made no answer.

"For there's no chance that he'll succeed," she continued with a touch
of anxiety in her voice.

Whittington neither agreed nor contradicted. He asked a question
instead.

"What is the sharpest spur a man can know? What is it that gives a man
audacity to attempt and wit to accomplish the impossible?"

The lady smiled.

"The poets tell us love," said she, demurely.

Whittington nodded his head.

"Wogan speaks very warmly of the Princess Clementina."

Her Ladyship's red lips lost their curve. Her eyes became thoughtful,
apprehensive.

"I wonder," she said slowly.