Mary Alice could look from her window in the far wing.  But even if she were to see no royalty, she was grateful for the privilege of staying on a few days longer in this Paradise by the sea.  And not the least delight of her new quarters was that they were high enough up so that from them she could overlook the sheltering Ilex-trees which made these marvellous gardens possible so close to the shore, and see the Channel ships a-sailing—­three-masted schooners laden with wood; fishing-smacks; London barges with their picturesque red sails bellying in the wind; and an occasional ocean liner trailing its black smoke across the horizon.  What with the sea and the gardens and the rich history of the place, Mary Alice felt that she could never tire of it, even if she did not see the King.  But it would be delightful to see him, too.  Some day the history of this splendid old place would include this royal visit; and Mary Alice, who had read of other such occasions and wished she might have been a mouse in a corner to witness them—­as, for instance, when Queen Elizabeth was here—­now felt the thrill of having that wish come true, in a way; and so far from feeling “set aside” or slighted, liked her window in the wing and her participation in the party above any other she might have had.

Mary Alice dined, the first night of the house party, with the Duchess’s older children, and then went back to her room to sit at the window and look down on the terraces where, after a while, some of the men guests came to smoke.

It was late, but the twilight still lingered.  Mary Alice could not tell who many of the men were, but she could see the King and she watched him interestedly as he paced up and down.  She had been told how no one must speak to a king until the king has first spoken to him; and she felt that at best it must be a dreary business—­being a king.

Presently, though, in the thickening shadows she saw a form that made her heart stand still. Could it be?  She was probably mistaken—­madly mistaken—­but something in the way a man down there carried himself made her think of Godmother’s little drawing-room in far-off New York and a man who was “playing the game.”  But the King was talking to this man—­talking most interestedly, it seemed.  She must be mistaken!

Nevertheless, when the men had all gone in, she put on a white shawl and slipped down on to the terrace.  She felt as if she must know; and of course she couldn’t ask, for she did not know his name.

The terraces were deserted, and she paced up and down undisturbed, trying to assure herself that Godmother would probably have known if he were in England—­his last letter had been from the Far East—­and especially if he were coming here.  There were times, as she reminded herself, when she was continually seeing him; out of every crowd, suddenly his tall form would seem to emerge; in the loneliness of quiet places, as by miracle he would seem to be where a moment ago she knew there was no one.  Then a sense of separation would intervene, and for days she would be given over to the belief that she was never to see him again.  To-night was doubtless just one of the times when, for no reason that she could understand, he seemed physically near to her.