They were talking of the Prince during those few minutes before they separated to dress for dinner. The whole of the house-party, with the exception of the Prince himself, were gathered around the great open fireplace at the north end of the hall. The weather had changed during the afternoon, and a cold wind had blown in their faces on the homeward drive. Every one had found comfortable seats here, watching the huge logs burn, and there seemed to be a general indisposition to move. A couple of young men from the neighborhood had joined the house-party, and the conversation, naturally enough, was chiefly concerned with the day's sport. The young men, Somerfield especially, were inclined to regard the Prince's achievement from a somewhat critical standpoint.
"He rode the race well enough," Somerfield admitted, "but the mare is a topper, and no mistake. He had nothing to do but to sit tight and let her do the work.""Of course, he hadn't to finish either," one of the newcomers, a Captain Everard Wilmot, remarked. "That's where you can tell if a fellow really can ride or not. Anyhow, his style was rotten. To me he seemed to sit his horse exactly like a groom.""You will, perhaps, not deny him," the Duke remarked mildly, "a certain amount of courage in riding a strange horse of uncertain temper, over a strange country, in an enterprise which was entirely new to him.""I call it one of the most sporting things I ever heard of in my life," Lady Grace declared warmly.
Somerfield shrugged his shoulders.
"One must admit that he has pluck," he remarked critically. "At the same time I cannot see that a single effort of this sort entitles a man to be considered a sportsman. He doesn't shoot, nor does he ever ride except when he is on military service. He neither plays games nor has he the instinct for them. A man without the instinct for games is a fellow I cannot understand.
He'd never get along in this country, would he, Wilmot?""No, I'm shot if he would!" that young man replied. "There must be something wrong about a man who hasn't any taste whatever for sport."Penelope suddenly intervened--intervened, too, in somewhat startling fashion.
"Charlie," she said, "you are talking like a baby! I am ashamed of you! I am ashamed of you all! You are talking like narrow-minded, ignorant little squireens."Somerfield went slowly white. He looked across at Penelope, but the angry flash in his eyes was met by an even brighter light in her own.
"I will tell you what I think!" she exclaimed. "I think that you are all guilty of the most ridiculous presumption in criticising such a man as the Prince. You would dare--you, Captain Wilmot, and you, Charlie, and you, Mr. Hannaway," she added, turning to the third young man, "to stand there and tell us all in a lordly way that the Prince is no sportsman, as though that mysterious phrase disposed of him altogether as a creature inferior to you and your kind! If only you could realize the absolute absurdity of any of you attempting to depreciate a person so immeasurably above you! Prince Maiyo is a man, not an overgrown boy to go through life shooting birds, playing games which belong properly to your schooldays, and hanging round the stage doors of half the theatres in London. You are satisfied with your lives and the Prince is satisfied with his. He belongs to a race whom you do not understand. Let him alone. Don't presume to imagine yourselves his superior because he does not conform to your pygmy standard of life."Penelope was standing now, her slim, elegant form throbbing with the earnestness of her words, a spot of angry color burning in her cheeks. During the moment's silence which followed, Lady Grace too rose to her feet and came to her friend's side.
"I agree with every word Penelope has said," she declared.
The Duchess smiled.
"Come," she said soothingly, "we mustn't take this little affair too seriously. You are all right, all of you. Every one must live according to his bringing up. The Prince, no doubt, is as faithful to his training and instincts as the young men of our own country. It is more interesting to compare than to criticise."Somerfield, who for a moment had been too angry to speak, had now recovered himself.
"I think," he said stiffly, "that we had better drop the subject.
I had no idea that Miss Morse felt so strongly about it or Ishould not have presumed, even here and amongst ourselves, to criticise a person who holds such a high place in her esteem.
Everard, I'll play you a game of billiards before we go upstairs.
There's just time."
Captain Wilmot hesitated. He was a peace-loving man, and, after all, Penelope and his friend were engaged.
"Perhaps Miss Morse--" he began.
Penelope turned upon him.
"I should like you all to understand," she declared, "that every word I said came from my heart, and that I would say it again, and more, with the same provocation."There was a finality about Penelope's words which left no room for further discussion. The little group was broken up. She and Lady Grace went to their rooms together.
"Penelope, you're a dear!" the latter said, as they mounted the stairs. "I am afraid you've made Charlie very angry, though.""I hope I have," Penelope answered. "I meant to make him angry. Ithink that such self-sufficiency is absolutely stifling. It makes me sometimes almost loathe young Englishmen of his class.""And you don't dislike the Prince so much nowadays?" Lady Grace remarked with transparent indifference.
"No!" Penelope answered. "That is finished. I misunderstood him at first. It was entirely my own fault. I was prejudiced, and Ihated to feel that I was in the wrong. I do not see how any one could dislike him unless they were enemies of his country. Then Ifancy that they might have cause.
Lady Grace sighed.
"To tell you the truth, Penelope," she said, "I almost wish that he were not quite so devotedly attached to his country."Penelope was silent. They had reached Lady Grace's room now, and were standing together on the hearthrug in front of the fire.
