Poor child! He smiled whimsically at Columbine.
"I am likely to be so for some little time," said he, "until it becomes a commonplace that I am not, after all, a prince.
"Not a prince? Oh, but a duke, then-at least a marquis."
"Not even a chevalier, unless it be of the order of fortune. I am just Scaramouche. My castles are all in Spain."
Disappointment clouded the lively, good-natured face.
"And I had imagined you... "
"I know," he interrupted. "That is the mischief." He might have gauged the extent of that mischief by Climene's conduct that evening towards the gentlemen of fashion who clustered now in the green-room between the acts to pay their homage to the incomparable amoureuse. Hitherto she had received them with a circumspection compelling respect.
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