"Where's our good and honest Hellgren?" asked the prince, when they were seated.
"He's making a horse out of plaster," Olga told him.
"A beautiful horse?" inquired the prince, with a twinkle.
"A big one."
"He has a gigantic talent," the prince agreed, and left it at that.
They had lunch in another quiet restaurant of the gourmet's choosing. "One would say we were a nice little family," he remarked, looking about him in contentment. "Papa, Maman, and their son who has just finished his militaire and the daughter—"
"Whom they can't seem to marry off," broke in Olga with a blithe ripple of laughter that jarred. Grover's eyes were on Floss who had flinched slightly at her husband's fun. Aha! thought Grover, Floss's tragedy,—and he had always suspected the presence of a tragedy,—had something to do with children, or the lack of them.
"A nice young man," she was saying, to conceal any hurt that might have peered through her beaming mask, "told me only this morning that I didn't look more than thirty, so how could they be my children!"
The prince patted her hand with punctilious affection. "It's true!" he agreed. "It's I who am the grandfather of the lot of you. . . No compliments, Mademoiselle!" he added with a hand raised in warn-
