“Get me the things,” said Priscilla.

“Your Grand Ducal Highness will be wet through.”

“Get me the things.  And don’t cry quite so much.  Crying really is the most shocking waste of time.”

Annalise withdrew, and Priscilla went round to Fritzing.  It was the first time she had been round to him.  He was sitting at his table, his head in his hands, staring at the furnisher’s bill, and he started to see her coming in unexpectedly through the kitchen, and shut the bill hastily in a drawer.

“Fritzi, have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“Certainly.  I had an excellent breakfast.”

“Nothing since?”

“I have not yet felt the need.”

“You know the cook Lady Shuttleworth sent has gone again?”

“What, that woman who burst in upon me was Lady Shuttleworth’s cook?”

“Yes.  And you frightened her so she ran home.”

“Ma’am, she overstepped the limits of my patience.”

“Dear Fritzi, I often wonder where exactly the limits of your patience are.  With me they have withdrawn into infinite space—­I’ve never been able to reach them.  But every one else seems to have a knack—­well, somebody must cook.  You tell me Annalise won’t.  Perhaps she really can’t.  Anyhow I cannot mention it to her, because it would be too horrible to have her flatly refusing to do something I told her to do and yet not be able to send her away.  But somebody must cook, and I’m going out to get the somebody.  Hush”—­she put up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak—­“I know it’s raining.  I know I’ll get wet.  Don’t let us waste time protesting.  I’m going.”

Fritzing was conscience-stricken.  “Ma’am,” he said, “you must forgive me for unwittingly bringing this bother upon you.  Had I had time for reflection I would not have been so sharp.  But the woman burst upon me.  I knew not who she was.  Sooner than offend her I would have cut out my tongue, could I have foreseen you would yourself go in search in the rain of a substitute.  Permit me to seek another.”

“No, no—­you have no luck with cooks,” said Priscilla smiling.  “I’m going.  Why I feel more cheerful already—­just getting out of that chair makes me feel better.”

“Were you not cheerful before?” inquired Fritzing anxiously.

“Not very,” admitted Priscilla.  “But then neither were you.  Don’t suppose I didn’t see you with your head in your hands when I came in.  Cheerful people never seize their heads in that way.  Now Fritzi I know what’s worrying you—­it’s that absurd affair last night.  I’ve left off thinking about it.  I’m going to be very happy again, and so must you be.  We won’t let one mad young man turn all our beautiful life sour, will we?”

He bent down and kissed her hand.  “Permit me to accompany you at least,” he begged.  “I cannot endure—­”