“Is it possible we’ve been insulted?” burst out Mrs. Morrison when they got outside.

“I don’t know,” said Lady Shuttleworth, who looked extremely thoughtful.

“Do you think it can possibly be the barbarous German custom?”

“I don’t know,” said Lady Shuttleworth again.

And all the way to the vicarage, whither she drove Mrs. Morrison, she was very silent, and no exclamations and conjectures of that indignant lady’s could get a word out of her.

X

Kunitz meanwhile was keeping strangely quiet.  Not a breath, not a whisper, had reached the newspapers from that afflicted little town of the dreadful thing that had happened to it.  It will be remembered that the Princess ran away on a Monday, arrived at Baker’s in the small hours of Wednesday morning, and had now spent both Wednesday and Thursday in Symford.  There had, then, been ample time for Europe to receive in its startled ears the news of her flight; yet Europe, judging from its silence, knew nothing at all about it.  In Minehead on the Thursday evening Fritzing bought papers, no longer it is true with the frenzy he had displayed at Dover when every moment seemed packed with peril, but still with eagerness; and not a paper mentioned Kunitz.  On the Saturday he did find the laconic information in the London paper he had ordered to be sent him every day that the Grand Duke of Lothen-Kunitz who was shooting in East Prussia had been joined there by that Prince—­I will not reveal his august name—­who had so badly wanted to marry Priscilla.  And on the Sunday—­it was of course the paper published in London on Saturday—­he read that the Princess Priscilla of Lothen-Kunitz, the second and only unmarried daughter of the Grand Duke, was confined to her bed by a sharp attack of influenza.  After that there was utter silence.  Fritzing showed Priscilla the paragraph about her influenza, and she was at first very merry over it.  The ease with which a princess can shake off her fetters the moment she seriously tries to surprised her, and amused her too, for a little.  It surprised Fritzing, but without amusing him, for he was a man who was never amused.  Indeed, I am unable to recall any single occasion on which I saw him smile.  Other emotions shook him vigorously as we know, but laughter never visited him with its pleasant ticklings under the ribs; it slunk away abashed before a task so awful, and left him at his happiest to a mood of mild contentment.  “Your Royal Parent,” he remarked to Priscilla, “has chosen that which is ever the better part of valour, and is hushing the incident up.”