head and kissed her, murmuring all sorts of things in his ecstasy. Color came back into her face and she became beautiful again. “Am I ugly?” she whispered, happy and dazed, between his kisses, “I should like to be beautiful for your sake. Do you know why I came? I expected that you would kill me.”
“And if you had known what was going to happen,” whispered Prokop, rocking her in his arms, “would you have come?”
The Princess nodded. “I am horrible. What must you think of me! But I won’t let you think.” He embraced her quickly and raised her from the couch. “No, no,” she implored, resisting him. But she lay still with moist eyes, her fingers playing with the hair on his heavy forehead. “Dear, dear,” she sighed, “how you have tortured me these last few days! Do you?” She did not say the word “love.” He assented passionately: “And you?”
“Yes. You should have seen it already. Do you know what you are? You are the most beautiful horrible man that ever had a big nose. Your eyes are as bloodshot as a St. Bernard’s. Is it through your work? Perhaps you wouldn’t be so nice if you were a prince. Ah! Stop!”
She slipped out of his embrace and went to the mirror to comb her hair. She examined herself attentively and then made a deep bow in front of the glass. “There’s the Princess,” she said, pointing to her image, “and here,” she added, indicating herself, “is your girl, you see? Did you realize that you possess a princess?”
