Godmother had what Mary Alice called “a duchess friend” of whom she was very, very fond.  The Duchess was a woman about Godmother’s age, and quite as lovely to look at as a duchess should be.  She was mistress of many and vast estates, and wore—­on occasions—­a coronet of diamonds and strings of pearls “worth a king’s ransom,” just like a duchess in a story.  But she seemed to Mary Alice to have hardly the mildest interest in the jewels she wore and the palaces she lived in; Mary Alice found it hard to bear in mind that to the Duchess these were just as matter-of-fact, as usual, as unvariable, as the home sitting-room and the “good” hat had once been to Mary Alice.  And like Mary Alice, the Duchess found her happiness in reaching out for something new and different.  The Duchess liked the world that Godmother lived in—­the world of Godmother’s lovely mind; and she loved Godmother’s companionship.

That was how it came about that Mary Alice found herself very often in exalted society.  The exalted personages did not notice her much; but every once in a while, by remembering the Secret, she got on happy terms with some of them.

And at last a very unusual thing happened.  The King was coming to honour the Duke and Duchess with a visit; coming to see one of those ancient and glorious estates the like of which no king owns, and which are the pride of all the kingdom.  Many sovereigns had stayed at this splendid old place on England’s south coast—­a place as famous for its beauty as for its six hundred years of history; so it was no unusual thing for it to house a king.  The unusual part of it all was Mary Alice being there.  By the King’s permission a wonderful house party was asked to meet him.  Godmother couldn’t be asked; she had never been presented, and the King was unaware of her existence.  The Duchess would not have dared to present Godmother’s name on the list submitted to the King.  Much less, therefore, would she have dared to present Mary Alice’s.  “But——!” said the Duchess, and went on to unfold a plan.

If Mary Alice would not mind staying on with the Duchess while Godmother paid another visit; and if she would not mind having a room somewhere in a remote wing; and would not mind not being asked to mingle with the party in any way, she might see something of such sights as perhaps she would never be able to see otherwise.  Mary Alice was delighted partly because she wanted to see the sights and partly because the thought of going away from this wonderful place made her heart ache.  So she was moved out of the fine guest suite she and Godmother had been lodged in, and over to a room in a far wing of the vast house.  From this wing one could look down on to the terraces for which the love and genius of none other than quaint John Evelyn—­greatest of England’s Garden Philosophers—­were responsible.  To these terraces the guests would certainly come, and to the world-famous rose garden into which also