"You would think one
might be sure of him. But it isn't so. Me, you may depend upon me,"
he impressed it lightly. "I'm what I say I am--a poor beggar of a
newspaper man, about to be held to account by one Chillingworth for
this whole millenial occurrence, and sent off to a political
convention to steady me, unless I'm fired. But St. George, he's a
gay dilettante."
Then Amory resumed a better topic of his own; and Olivia, when she
understood, looked down at her lover as miserably as one is able
when one is perfectly happy.
"Oh," she said, "and up there--in the palace to-day--I did think for
a minute that perhaps you wanted me to marry the prince so
that--they could--."
One could smile now at the enormity of that.
"So that I could put it in the paper?" he said. "But, you see, I
never could put it in any paper, even if I didn't love you. Who
would believe me? A thousand years from now--maybe less--the
_Evening Sentinel_, if it is still in existence, can publish the
story, perhaps. Until then I'm afraid they'll have to confine
themselves to the doings of the precincts.
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