I saw every one straining to hear what the Prince’s answer would be, but I took good care that we should move out of earshot.  At that moment Lord Hartington [Footnote:  The late Duke of Devonshire.] came up and told me I was to go in to supper with him.  More than ever I wished I had changed my dress, for now every one was looking at me with even greater curiosity than hostility.

The supper was gay and I had remarkable talks which laid the foundation of my friendship both with King Edward and the Duke of Devonshire.  The Prince told me he had had a dull youth, as Queen Victoria could not get over the Prince Consort’s death and kept up an exaggerated mourning.  He said he hoped that when I met his mother I should not be afraid of her, adding, with a charming smile, that with the exception of John Brown everybody was.  I assured him with perfect candour that I was afraid of no one.  He was much amused when I told him that before he had arrived that evening some of the ladies had whispered that I was in my night-gown and I hope he did not think me lacking in courtesy because I had not put on a ball-dress.  He assured me that on the contrary he admired my frock very much and thought I looked like an old picture.  This remark made me see uncomfortable visions of the Oakham ball and he did not dispel them by adding: 

“You are so original!  You must dance the cotillion with me.”

I told him that I could not possibly stay, it would bore my father stiff, as he hated sitting up late; also I was not dressed for dancing and had no idea there was going to be a ball.  When supper was over, I made my best curtsy and, after presenting my father to the Prince, went home to bed.

Lord Hartington told me in the course of our conversation at supper that Lady Grosvenor [Footnote:  The Countess of Grosvenor.] was by far the most dangerous syren in London and that he would not answer for any man keeping his head or his heart when with her, to which I entirely agreed.

When the London season came to an end we all went up to Glen.

Here I must retrace my steps.

In the winter of 1880 I went to stay with my sister, Lucy Graham
Smith, in Wiltshire.

I was going out hunting for the first time, never having seen a fox, a hound or a fence in my life; my heart beat as my sisters superintending my toilette put the last hair-pin into a crinkly knot of hair; I pulled on my top-boots and, running down to the front door, found Ribblesdale, who was mounting me, waiting to drive me to the meet.  Hounds met at Christian Malford station.

Not knowing that with the Duke of Beaufort’s hounds every one wore blue and buff, I was disappointed at the appearance of the field.  No one has ever suggested that a touch of navy blue improves a landscape; and, although I had never been out hunting before, I had looked forward to seeing scarlet coats.

We moved off, jostling each other as thick as sardines, to draw the nearest cover.  My mount was peacocking on the grass when suddenly we heard a “Halloa!” and the whole field went hammering like John Gilpin down the hard high road.