"Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat.
Mr. Rassendyll himself had confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir.
"Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though."
"What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the King with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?"
"No, I know what you’ve done."
"I take no credit. It was more the dog’s doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?"
At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the Count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"?
"Why not call me King?" asked Rudolf.
