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?"