For there, beside the beetling throne, was standing a man, slenderly
built, with a youthful, sensitive face and critically-drooping lids,
and upon them all his eyes were turned in faint amusement warmed by
an idle approbation.
"Perfect--perfect. Quite perfect," he was saying below his breath.
Olivia turned. The next moment she stood with outstretched arms
before her father; and King Otho, in his long, straight robe,
encrusted with purple amethysts, bent with exquisite courtesy above
his daughter's hands.
"My dear child," he murmured, "the picture that you make entirely
justifies my existence, but hardly my absence. Shall we ask his
Highness to do that?"
It mattered little who was to do that so long as it was done. For to
that people, steeped in dream, risen from the crudity of mere events
to breathe in the rarer atmosphere of their significance, here was a
happening worthy their attention, for it had the dignity of mystery.
Even Mrs. Medora Hastings, billowing toward the throne with cries,
was less poignantly a challenge to be heard.
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