“We shall, I promise you,” she replied enigmatically; and she drove off.

One morning, a fortnight later, she rang him up.  “You’re coming to dine with me on Friday, as usual, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” said he.  “Why do you ask?”

“Just to make sure.  And yes—­also—­to tell you not to come till half-past eight.”

She rang off.  Paul thought no more of the matter.  Ever since he had taken his seat in the House he had dined with her alone every Friday evening.  It was their undisturbed hour of intimacy and gladness in the busy week.  Otherwise they rarely met, for Paul was a pariah in her social world.

On the Friday in question his taxi drew up before an unusual-looking house in Berkeley Square.  An awning projected from the front door and a strip of carpet ran across the pavement.  At the sound of the taxi, the door opened and revealed the familiar figures of the Princess’s footmen in their state livery.  He entered, somewhat dazed.

“Her Highness has a party?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.  A very large dinner party.”

Paul passed his hand over his forehead.  What did it mean?  “This is Friday, isn’t it?”

“Of course, sir.”

Paul grew angry.  It was a woman’s trap to force him on society.  For a moment he struggled with the temptation to walk away after telling the servant that it was a mistake and that he had not been invited.  At once, however, came realization of social outrage.  He surrendered hat and coat and let himself be announced.  The noise of thirty voices struck his ear as he entered the great drawing-room.  He was confusedly aware of a glitter of jewels, and bare arms and shoulders and the black and white of men.  But radiant in the middle of the room stood his Princess, with a tiara of diamonds on her head, and beside her stood a youngish man whose face seemed oddly familiar.

Paul advanced, kissed her hand.

She laughed gaily.  “You are late, Paul.”

“You said half-past, Princess.  I am here to the minute.”

“Je te dirai apres,” she said, and the daring of the intimate speech took his breath away.

“Your Royal Highness,” she turned to the young man beside her—­and then Paul suddenly recognized a prince of the blood royal of England—­ “may I present Mr. Savelli.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” said the Prince graciously.  “Your Young England League has interested me greatly.  We must have a talk about it one of these days, if you can spare the time.  And I must congratulate you on your speech the other night.”

“You are far too kind, sir,” said Paul.

They chatted for a minute or two.  Then the Princess said:  “You’ll take in the Countess of Danesborough.  I don’t think you’ve met her; but you’ll find she’s an old friend.”

“Old friend?” echoed Paul.

She smiled and turned to a pretty and buxom woman of forty standing near.  “My dear Lady Danesborough.  Here is Mr. Savelli, whom you are so anxious to meet.”