“A new young Disraeli?”

“Why not?”

The Leader made a faint gesture of philosophic doubt.  “The mould is broken,” said he.

“We’ll see,” said Frank Ayres, confidently.

Meanwhile, Paul returned to his room and wrote a letter, three words of which he had put on paper—­“My dear Princess”—­when the summons to meet the Chief Whip had come.  The unblotted ink had dried hard.  He took another sheet.

“My dear Princess,” he began.

He held his head in his hand.  What could he say?  Ordinary courtesy demanded an acknowledgment of the Princess’s message of inquiry.  But to write to her whom he had held close in his arms, whose lips had clung maddeningly to his, in terms of polite convention seemed impossible.  What had she meant by her message?  If she had gone scornfully out of his life, she had gone, and there was an end on’t.  Her coming back could bear only one interpretation—­that of Jane’s passionate statement.  In spite of all, she loved him.  But now, stripped and naked and at war with the world, for all his desire, he would have none of her love.  Not he. . . .  At last he wrote: 

Princess,—­A thousand grateful thanks for last night’s gracious act—­the act of the very great lady that I have the privilege of knowing you to be.

Paul Savelli.

He rang for a servant and ordered the note to be sent by hand, and then went out to Hickney Heath to see to the burying of his dead.  On his return he found a familiar envelope with the crown on the flap awaiting him.  It contained but few words: 

Paul, come and see me.  I will stay at home all day.

Sophie.

His pulses throbbed.  Her readiness to await his pleasure proved a humility of spirit rare in Princess Sophie Zobraska.  Her hands were held out towards him.  But he hardened his heart.  The fairy-tale was over.  Nothing but realities lay before him.  The interview was perilous; but he was not one to shirk danger.  He went out, took a cab and drove to Berkeley Square.

She rose shyly as he entered and advanced to meet him.  He kissed her hand, but when he sought to release it he found his held in her warm clasp.  “Mon Dieu!  How ill you are looking!” she said, and her lips quivered.

“I’m only tired.”

“You look so old.  Ah!” She moved away from him with a sigh.  “Sit down.  I suppose you can guess why I’ve asked you to come,” she continued after a pause.  “But it is a little hard to say.  I want you to forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Paul.

“Don’t be ungenerous; you know there is.  I left you to bear everything alone.”

“You were more than justified.  You found me an impostor.  You were wounded in everything you held sacred.  I wounded you deliberately.  You could do nothing else but go away.  Heaven forbid that I should have thought of blaming you.  I didn’t.  I understood.”