THE NAME-DAY OF THE KING
Sophy was never disdainful, never neglectful; her pose now was good.
"What sort of a man is the King?" she asked.
"The King is most emphatically a very good sort of fellow—a very good old fellow. I only wish his son was like him! The Prince is a Tartar. Has he gone by yet?"
"I don't think so. I suppose he'd have an escort, wouldn't he? I don't know him by sight yet. Does everybody call the King a good fellow?"
"Some people are so extremely righteous!" pleaded Markart, ruefully. "And, anyhow, he has reformed now."
"Because he's old?"
"Fifty-nine! Is that so very old? No; I rather attribute it—you're discreet, I hope? I'm putting my fortunes in your hands—to Madame la Comtesse."
"The Countess Ellenburg? Marie has told me something about her."
"Ah! Madame Zerkovitch is a friend of hers?"
"Not intimate, I think. And is the Countess oppressively respectable, Captain Markart?"
"Women in her position always are," said the Captain, with an affected sigh: his round, chubby face was wrinkled with merriment. "You see, a morganatic marriage isn't such a well-established institution here as in some other countries. Oh, it's legal enough, no doubt, if it's agreed to on that basis. But the Stefanovitches have in the past often made non-royal marriages—with their own subjects generally. Well, there was nobody else for them to marry! Alexis got promotion in his first marriage—an Italian Bourbon, which is always respectable, if not very brilliant. That gave us a position, and it couldn't be thrown away. So the second marriage
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