Upon seeing him all rose. With a smile he
dismissed them.
"My child," he began, taking Hildegarde's hand and drawing her toward a
window-seat, "the king of Jugendheit asks for your hand."
"Mine, father?"
"Even so."
"Then I am to marry the king of Jugendheit?" There was little joy in her
voice.
"Ah, we have not gone so far as that. The king, through his uncle, has
simply made a proposal. How would you regard it, knowing what you do of
the past, the years that you lived in comparative penury, amid
hardships, unknown, and almost without name?"
"It is for you to decide, father. Whatever your decision is, I shall
abide by it."
"It is a hard lesson we have to learn, my child. We can not always
marry where we love; diplomacy and politics make other plans. But
fortunately for you you love no one yet." He put his hand under her chin
and searched the deeps of her gray eyes. These eyes were more like her
mother's than anything else about her. "The king is young, handsome,
they say, and rich. Politically speaking, it would be a great match."
"I am in your hands. You know what is best."
The duke was poignantly disappointed. Why did she not refuse outright,
indignantly, contemptuously, as became one of the House of Ehrenstein?
Anything rather than this complacency.
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