"You would think one might be sure of him.

But it isn't so.

Me, you may depend upon me," he impressed it lightly.

"I'm what I say I am--a poor beggar of a newspaper man, about to be held to account by one Chillingworth for this whole millenial occurrence, and sent off to a political convention to steady me, unless I'm fired.

But St.George, he's a gay dilettante." Then Amory resumed a better topic of his own; and Olivia, when she understood, looked down at her lover as miserably as one is able when one is perfectly happy.
"Oh," she said, "and up there--in the palace to-day--I did think for a minute that perhaps you wanted me to marry the prince so that--they could--." One could smile now at the enormity of that.
"So that I could put it in the paper ?" he said.