Arms and the Woman

The affair caused considerable stir. The wise men of diplomacy shook

their heads over it and predicted grave things in store for

Hohenphalia. Things were bad enough as they were, but to have a woman

with American ideas at the head--well, it was too dreadful to think of.

And the correspondents created a hubbub. The news was flashed to

Paris, to London, thence to New York, where the illustrated weeklies

printed full-page pictures of the new Princess who had but a few months

since been one of the society belles. And everybody was wondering who

the "journalist" in the case was. The Chancellor smiled and said

nothing. Mr. Wentworth said nothing and smiled. A cablegram from New

York alarmed me. It said: "Was it you?" I answered, "Await letter."

The letter contained my resignation, to take effect the moment my name

became connected with the finding of the Princess Elizabeth. A week or

so later I received another cablegram, "Accept resignation. Temptation

too great." In some manner they secured a photograph of mine, and I

became known as "The reporter who made a Princess;" and for many days

the raillery at the clubs was simply unbearable. But I am skipping the

intermediate events, those which followed the scene in the King's

palace.

I was very unhappy. Three days passed, and I saw neither Phyllis nor

Gretchen. The city was still talking about the dramatic ending of

Prince Ernst's engagement to the Princess Hildegarde, Twice I had

called at the Hohenphalian residence to pay my respects. Once I was

told that Their Highnesses were at the palace. The second time I was

informed that Their Highnesses were indisposed. I became gloomy and

disheartened. I could not understand. Gretchen had not even thanked

me for my efforts in saving her the unhappiness of marrying the Prince.

And Phyllis, she who had called me "Jack," she whom I had watched grow

from girlhood to womanhood, she, too, had forsaken me. I do not know

what would have become of me but for Pembroke's cheerfulness.

Monday night I was sitting before the grate, reading for the hundredth

time Gretchen's only letter. Pembroke was buried behind the covers of

a magazine. Suddenly a yellow flame leaped from a pine log, and in it

I seemed to read all. Gretchen was proud and jealous. She believed

that I loved Phyllis and had made her a Princess because I loved her.

It was the first time I had laughed in many an hour. Pembroke looked

over his magazine.

"That sounds good. What caused it?"