Dear Mr. Savelli: 

Will you dine on Saturday and help me entertain an eminent Egyptologist?  I know nothing of Egypt save Shepheard’s Hotel, and that I’m afraid wouldn’t interest him.  Do come to my rescue.  Yours, Sophie Zobraska.

Paul leaned back in his chair, twiddling the letter between his fingers, and looked smilingly out or, the grey autumn rack of clouds.  There was a pleasant and flattering intimacy in the invitation:  pleasant because it came from a pretty woman; flattering because the woman was a princess, widow of a younger son of a Royal Balkan house.  She lived at Chetwood.  Park, on the other side of Morebury, and was one of the great ones of those latitudes.  A real princess.

Paul’s glance, travelling back from the sky, fell upon the brass date indicator on the table.  It marked the 2nd of October.  On that day five years ago he had. entered on his duties at Drane’s Court.  He laughed softly.  Five years ago be was a homeless wanderer.  Now princesses were begging him to rescue them from Egyptologists.  With glorious sureness all his dreams were coming true.

Thus we see our Fortunate Youth at eight-and-twenty in the heyday of success.  If he had strutted about under Jane’s admiring eyes, like a peacock among daws, he now walked serene, a peacock among peacocks.  He wore the raiment, frequented the clubs, ate the dinners of the undeservingly rich and the deservingly great.  His charm and his self-confidence, which a genius of tact saved from self-assertion, carried him pleasantly through the social world; his sympathetic intelligence dealt largely and strongly with the public affairs under his control.  He loved organizing, persuading, casting skilful nets.  His appeal for subscriptions was irresistible.  He had the magical gift of wringing a hundred pounds from a plutocrat with the air of conferring a graceful favour.  In aid of the Mission to Convert the Jews he could have fleeced a synagogue.  The societies and institutions in which the Colonel and Ursula Winwood were interested flourished amazingly beneath his touch.  The Girls’ Club in the Isle of Dogs, long since abandoned in despair by the young Guardsman, grew into a popular and sweetly mannered nunnery.  The Central London Home” for the Indigent Blind, which had been languishing for support, in spite of Miss Winwood’s efforts, found itself now in a position to build a much-needed wing.  There was also, most wonderful and, important thing of all, the Young England League, which was covering him with steadily increasing glory.  Of this much hereafter.  But it must be remembered.  Ursula complained that he left her nothing to do save attend dreary committee meetings; and even for these Paul saved her all the trouble in hunting up information.  She was a mere figurehead.

“Dearest lady,” Paul would say, “if you send me about my business, you’ll write me a character, won’t you, saying that you’re dismissing me for incorrigible efficiency?”