A Mummer's Throne by Fred M. White

The sun was westering now, the shadows of the forest trees were falling long and lank across the green turf, the violet mists were gathering in the leafy hollows. Seated there they could see the smoke of the city beyond, and could catch faint murmurs of the stress and hum of life there. They did not know, and the king did not care that already rumour was getting busy with his name. He little heeded the choice morceau of scandal which had been passed along from lip to lip in the cafes and at the little tables along the shaded boulevards. As yet no one knew anything. It was all the idlest gossip. But the evening edition of 'La Cigale' would be out presently, then they would know everything. If there was any truth in the story, 'La Cigale' would have every detail; its pink pages would blush with the embroidery of the scandal.

Meanwhile, the king was enjoying himself. He was in no haste to be rid of his companions. He had no feeling of resentment for their calm assumption that there was a perfect understanding between himself and Nita Reinhardt. But as the dusk began to fall a certain sense of responsibility enveloped the group, and one by one they rose and turned their faces in the direction of the city. The gravity and responsibility of life had come back to them.