“What is it?”

She paused, looked round and widened her circle.  “For the past year I have been wanting Mr. Savelli to ask me to marry him, and he obstinately refuses to do so.  Will you tell me, sir, what a poor woman is to do?”

She addressed herself exclusively to the young Prince; but her voice, with its adorable French intonation, rang high and clear.  Paul, suddenly white and rigid, clenched the hand of the Princess which happened to lie within immediate reach.  A wave of curiosity, arresting talk, spread swiftly down.  There was an uncanny, dead silence, broken only by a raucous voice proceeding from a very fat Lord of Appeal some distance away: 

“After my bath I always lie flat on my back and bring my knees up to my chin.”

There was a convulsive, shrill gasp of laughter, which would have instantly developed into an hysterical roar, had not the young Prince, with quick, tactful disregard of British convention, sprung to his feet, and with one hand holding champagne glass, and the other uplifted, commanded silence.  So did the stars in their courses still fight for Paul.  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Prince, “I have the pleasure to announce the engagement of Her Highness the Princess Sophie Zobraska and Mr. Paul Savelli.  I ask you to drink to their health and wish them every happiness.”

He bowed to the couple, lifted his glass, and standing, swept a quick glance round the company, and at the. royal command the table rose, dukes and duchesses and Cabinet Ministers, the fine flowers of England, and drank to Paul and his Princess.

“Attrape!” she whispered, as they got up together, hand in hand.  And as they stood, in their superb promise of fulfilment, they conquered.  The Princess said:  “Mais dis quelque chose, toi.”

And Paul met the flash in her eyes, and he smiled.  “Your Royal Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, while all the company were racking their brains to recall a precedent for such proceedings at a more than formal London dinner party; “the Princess and myself thank you from our hearts.  For me this might almost seem the end of the fairy-tale of my life, in which—­when I was eleven years old—­her ladyship the Countess of Danesborough” (he bowed to the Maisie of years ago), “whom I have not seen from that day to this, played the part of Fairy Godmother.  She gave me a talisman then to help me in my way through the world.  I have it still.”  He held up the cornelian heart.  “It guided my steps to my dearest lady, Miss Winwood, in whose beloved service I lived so long.  It has brought me to the feet of my Fairy Princess.  But now the fairy-tale is over.  I begin where the fairy-tales end”—­he laughed into his Sophie’s eyes—­“I begin in the certain promise of living happy ever afterwards.”

In this supreme hour of his destiny there spoke the old, essential Paul, the believer in the Vision Splendid.  The instinctive appeal to the romantic ringing so true and so sincere awoke responsive chords in hearts which, after all, as is the simple way of hearts of men and women, were very human.