He sat down a made man, amid pleasant laughter and bowings and lifting of glasses, the length of the long table.

Lady Danesborough said gently:  “It was charming of you to bring me in.  But I shall be besieged with questions.  What on earth shall I tell them?”

“The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” he replied.  “What do the Princess and I care?”

Later in the evening he managed to find himself alone for a moment with the Princess.  “My wonderful Sophie, what can I say to you?”

She smiled victoriously.  “Cry quits.  Confess that you have not the monopoly of the grand manner.  You have worked in your man’s way—­I in my woman’s way.”

“You took a great risk,” said he.

Her eyes softened adorably.  “Non, mon Paul, cheri.  C’etait tout arrange.  It was a certainty.”

And then, Paul’s dearest lady came up and pressed both their hands.  “I am so glad.  Oh, so glad.”  The tears started.  “But it is something like a fairy-tale, isn’t it?”

Well, as far as his chronicler can say at present, that is the end of the Fortunate Youth.  But it is really only a beginning.  Although his party is still in opposition, he is still young; his sun is rising and he is rich in the glory thereof.  A worldful of great life lies before him and his Princess.  What limit can we set to their achievement?  Of course he was the Fortunate Youth.  Of that there is no gainsaying.  He had his beauty, his charm, his temperament, his quick southern intelligence—­all his Sicilian heritage—­and a freakish chance had favoured him from the day that, vagabond urchin, he attended his first and only Sunday-school treat.  But personal gifts and favouring chance are not everything in this world.

On the day before his wedding he had a long talk with Barney Bill.

“Sonny,” said the old man, scratching his white poll, “when yer used to talk about princes and princesses, I used to larf—­larf fit to bust myself.  I never let yer seen me do it, sonny, for all the time you was so dead serious.  And now it has come true.  And d’yer know why it’s come true, sonny?” He cocked his head on one side, his little diamond eyes glittering, and laid a hand on Paul’s knee.  “D’yer know why?  Because yer believed in it.  I ain’t had much religion, not having, so to speak, much time for it, also being an old crock of a pagan—­but I do remember as what Christ said about faith—­just a mustard seed of it moving mountains.  That’s it, sonny.  I’ve observed lots of things going round in the old ’bus.  Most folks believe in nothing.  What’s the good of ’em?  Move mountains?  They’re paralytic in front of a dunghill.  I know what I’m talking about, bless yer.  Now you come along believing in yer ’igh-born parents.  I larfed, knowing as who yer parents were.  But you believed, and I had to let you believe.  And you believed in your princes and princesses, and your being born to great things.  And I couldn’t sort of help believing in it too.”