"Thusis," I began, stiffly----
"Oh, don't! Please don't! I'm too weak. I'll go to bed--really I
will, Michael. And leave you to wrap yourself in your nightie and stalk
back to the Admiral----"
"Damn it all!" I broke out. She rocked, helplessly, her face buried in
her hands.
After a while she got up, supporting herself by one hand on the
stair-rail. The other hand pressed her heart.
"Michael dear," she said, "you are perfectly right. We are what we are.
Nothing alters that. We are born what we are; we die what we are. No
cataclysm can change what we really are.... As for distinction of rank,
don't you know, Michael, that social inequality always has existed and
always will?"
"Not artificial social inequality. Minds alone will dominate.
Personality only will count. Inheritance and tradition will play no part
in the world's future after this war ends."
"You seem to be quite sure, Michael."
"Perfectly."
"But you are so young to be a prophet and a seer!"
"Good heavens, Thusis, is there nothing serious in you!" I exclaimed
wrathfully.
"Not just at the moment," she retorted, controlling her laughter. "And
I'd better go to bed or I'll be suggesting that we start that music-box
down stairs and try a two-step."
I took a step toward her: "It amuses you to be funny," said I, "but
before we take leave of each other suppose you hand me that pistol."
"Indeed I shall not!"
"If you don't hand it over," said I, "I shall be obliged to catch you
and take it away from you." And I started toward her.
At that she flew up the stairs, turned on the landing and leaned down
toward me with an adorable gesture.
"Go to the devil!" she whispered softly. And vanished in the dusk
above.
*XII*
*ROYALTY*
The Queen demanded her breakfast in bed. Clelia came to the breakfast
room to tell me so.
I had heard the furious ringing of her bell and I said to Smith that
something of that sort was likely to happen.
"You tell her," said I to Clelia, "that no meals are served in rooms.
What does she expect with only one waitress?"
Clelia went away and Smith and I resumed coffee, toast, and a poached
egg apiece. Presently Clelia returned, her eyes and cheeks brilliant
with suppressed emotion.
"Well," said I, "what's the matter now?"
"Madame Xenos is very, very angry, and she demands to see the landlord."
"Did she employ that word?"
"Yes, she did."
"You say she wants to see me?" I asked.
"She insists."
"But you tell me she's in bed, Clelia. How can I go up?"
Clelia shrugged her pretty shoulders! "Queens don't care. A landlord
of an inn has no masculine meaning to a queen."
"Is that so!" I said. "Very well"--I finished my coffee at a
gulp--"I'll go and see Madame Hohenzollern."
"You'd better be careful," said Clelia, smiling. "She really is a
vixen."
I recollected the story of Constantine, and that it was commonly
believed she had once stuck a knife into Tino when annoyed about
something or other.
But I rose from the table determined to settle her status in my house
once for all.
"And, Clelia," I said, "I've heard other bells tinkling. Those kings
upstairs are no good, and I wouldn't put it past either of them to
demand that you serve them breakfast in their rooms."
"They have demanded it."
Smith turned an angry red and made as though to rise, but sat down
again.
For a moment I was too mad to speak. Finally I said: "Of course you
ignored their bells."
"No, I answered them."
"You didn't go into their rooms!"
"No. I knocked politely. Monsieur Xenos flirted with me----"
"What!"
"In a whisper through the keyhole. So I went away to see what Monsieur
Itchenuff desired." She laughed and, lifting the coffee-pot, filled
Smith's cup. "Monsieur Itchenuff wanted me to bring him breakfast. He
also said he always breakfasted in bed----"
"Keep away from that pair!" said Smith violently.
But Clelia's eyebrows went up and so did her nose, mutely signaling
Smith to mind his own affairs.
"Clelia," said he, "I want to talk to you----"
"I'm here to wait on you, not to talk to you!" she retorted.
"Then at least you must listen----"
"Must? _Must_? Monsieur Smith, your bullying tone does not please me!"
Here was the beginning of a pretty row. But I had another on my own
hands so I left them and went upstairs to interview the Queen.
"Come in!" she snapped when I knocked. Her voice chilled my courage and
I sidled in batting my eyes ingratiatingly.
The Queen was in bed. Her hair was done up like a lady Hottentot's, all
screwed into tight little kinks. Over her sharp, discontented features
cold cream glistened like oleomargarine on a bun.
"I've ordered breakfast in bed," she said sharply. "Why am I kept
waiting?"