"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 and I was nineteen. You are right, Lady Saxondale. I'll
confess to having regarded her as the fairest creature the sun ever
shone upon. For six solid, delicious months she was the foundation
of every thought that touched my brain. And then--well, what
happened then? Oh, yes; we quarrelled and forgot each other. So
she's the girl who's to marry the prince, is she?" Quentin's face
was serious for the moment; a far-off look of real concern came into
his eyes. He was recalling a sweet, dainty face, a girlish figure,
and the days gone by.

"How odd I did not think of it before. Really, you two were dreadful
spoons in those days. Mamma used to worry for fear you'd carry out
your threat to run away with her. And now she's to be a real live
princess." Lady Frances created a profound sensation when she
resurrected Quentin's boyhood love affair with the one American girl
that all Europe talked about at that moment. Lord Bob was excited,