"I am very interested in it."
"Just now?"
"Even just now, Cæsar." I heard a little laugh behind the screen.
"Hammerfeldt hates it," said I.
"Oh, then that settles it. You'll be against us, of course!"
"Why of course?"
"You always do as the Prince tells you, don't you?"
"Unless somebody more powerful forbids me."
"Who is more powerful—except Cæsar himself?"
I made no answer, but I rose and, crossing the rug, stood by her. I remember the look and the feel of the room very well; she lay back in a low chair upholstered in blue; the firelight, forbidden her face, played on the hand that held the screen, flushing its white to red. I could see her hair gleaming in the fantastically varying light that the flames gave as they left and fell. I was in a tumult of excitement and timidity.
"More powerful than Cæsar?" I asked, and my voice shook.
"Don't call yourself Cæsar."
"Why not?"
There was a momentary hesitation before the answer came low:
"Because you mustn't laugh at yourself. I may laugh at you, but you mustn't yourself."
I wondered at the words, the tone, the strange diffidence that infected even a speech so full of her gay bravery. A moment later she added a reason for her command.
"You're so absurd that you mustn't laugh at
