For a while he lost his Princess.  She went to Cowes, then to stay with French relations in a chateau in the Dordogne.  Paul went off yachting with the Chudleys and returned for the shooting to Drane’s Court.  In the middle of September the Winwoods’ new secretary arrived and received instruction in his duties.  Then came the Princess to Morebury Park.  “Dearest,” she said, in his arms, “I never want to leave you again.  France is no longer France for me since I have England in my heart.”

“You remember that?  My wonderful Princess!”

He found her more woman, more expansive, more bewitchingly caressing.  Absence had but brought her nearer.  When she laid her head on his shoulder and murmured in the deep and subtle tones of her own language:  “My Paul, it seems such a waste of time to be apart,” it took all his pride and will to withstand the maddening temptation.  He vowed that the time would soon come when he could claim her, and went away in feverish search for worlds to conquer.

Then came October and London once more.

* * * * * *

Paul was dressing for dinner one evening when a reply-paid telegram was brought to him.

“If selected by local committee will you stand for Hickney Heath?  Ayres.”

He sat on his bed, white and trembling, and stared at the simple question.  The man-servant stood imperturbable, silver tray in hand.  Seeing the reply-paid form, he waited for a few moments.

“Is there an answer, sir?”

Paul nodded, asked for a pencil, and with a shaky hand wrote the reply.  “Yes,” was all he said.

Then with reaction came the thrill of mighty exultation, and, throwing on his clothes, he rushed to the telephone in his sitting room.  Who first to hear the wondrous news but his Princess?  That there was a vacancy in Hickney Heath he knew, as all Great Britain knew; for Ponting, the Radical Member, had died suddenly the day before.  But it had never entered his head that he could be chosen as a candidate.

“Mais j’y ai bien pense, moi,” came the voice through the telephone.  “Why did Lord Francis tell you to go to Hickney Heath last July?”

How a woman leaps at things I With all his ambition, his astuteness, his political intuition, he had not seen the opportunity.  But it had come.  Verily the stars in their courses were fighting for him.  Other names, he was aware, were before the Committee of the Local Association, perhaps a great name suggested by the Central Unionist Organization; there was also that of the former Tory member, who, smarting under defeat at the General Election, had taken but a lukewarm interest in the constituency and was now wandering in the Far East.  But Paul, confident in his destiny, did not doubt that he would be selected.  And then, within the next fortnight—­for bye-elections during a Parliamentary session are matters of sweeping swiftness—­would come the great battle, the great decisive battle of his life, and he would win.  He must win.  His kingdom was at stake—­the dream kingdom of his life into which he would enter with his loved and won Princess on his arm.  He poured splendid foolishness through the telephone into an enraptured ear.