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He kissed her lips.

“I’m very happy,” said Eve. “I hope you are.”

Broke picked her up in his arms.

“You wicked child,” he said.

“Witch, princess, child,” said Eve, with an arm round his neck. “Which will you marry?”

“The child,” said Jeremy Broke.

“That’s right,” said Eve. “The others have served their turn. The stick to persuade you to jump: the sceptre to dazzle your vision.” She fell to stroking his hair. “I’m really more of an artist than I thought. Looking back, I wonder I had the courage to be so indecent. Of course, I was desperate. Still ...”

“It is the prerogative of royalty.”

Eve made a maddening mouth.

“Diplomat!” she said. Then—“As a matter of fact, stacks of us do it all the time, darling. But I never thought I should.”

The two were married one brilliant June morning, full of the airs and graces of a belated spring. Broke received twelve presents, Miss Carew six hundred and four: such is the power of money. The former had already resigned his ghost of a job and was earning much less than a living by plying his pen. From this Eve sought to dissuade him, but the man was resolute. Marriage had brought him a livery more gorgeous than any he could win, but he would stand upon his own shoe-leather.