It was as if the
curtain had just fallen and the lights of the auditorium had flashed
up after the third act, and they had all caught one another
breathless or in tears, pretending that the tragedy had really
happened.
"Promise me something," begged St. George softly, in sudden alarm,
born of this inevitable aspect; "promise me that when we get to New
York you are not going to forget all about Yaque--and me--and
believe that none of us ever happened."
Olivia looked toward the serene mystery of the distance.
"New York," she said only, "think of seeing you in New York--now."
"Was I of more account in Yaque?" demanded St. George anxiously.
"Sometimes," said Olivia adorably, "I shall tell you that you were.
But that will be only because I shall have an idea that in Yaque you
loved me more."
"Ah, very well then. And sometimes," said St. George contentedly,
"when we are at dinner I shall look down the table at you sitting
beside some one who is expounding some baneful literary theory, and
I shall think: What do I care? He doesn't know that she is really
the Princess of Far-Away.
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