There was the faintest possible smile, and she was gone; and St.George, his heart pounding, sat staring stupidly after that shining cloud of dust, frantically wondering whether she could just possibly have seen him.

For this was no trick of the imagination, his galloping heart told him that.

And whether or not Yaque was a place, the world, the world was within his grasp, instinct with possibilities heavenly sweet.

His eyes met Amory's in the minute when Cassyrus, prime minister of Yaque, had it borne in upon him that this was no runaway machine, but the ordinary and preferred pace of the daughter of their king; and while Cassyrus, at the enormity of the conception, breathed out expostulations in several languages--some of them known to us only by means of inscriptions on tombs--Amory spoke to St.George: "Who was the other girl ?" he asked comprehensively.
"What other girl ?" St.George blankly murmured.
And at this, Amory turned away with a look that could be made to mean whatever Amory meant.
On went the imperial train faring back to Med over the road lately stirred to shining dust by the wheels of Olivia's auto.

Olivia's auto.