“I must content myself with kissing your finger tips at your reception,” said Paul.

She smiled.  “We will find a means,” she said.

At her reception, an assemblage glittering with the diamonds and orders of the great ones of the earth, she found only time to say:  “Come to-morrow at five.  I shall be alone.”

Darkness descended on Paul as he replied:  “Impossible, Princess.  Colonel Winwood wants me at the House.”

The next morning, greatly daring, he rang her up; for a telephone stood on the Fortunate Youth’s table in his private sitting-room in Portland Place.

“It is I, Princess, Paul Savelli.”

“What have you to say for yourself, Paul Savelli?”

“I am at your feet.”

“Why can’t you come to-day?”

He explained.

“But tell Colonel Winwood that I want you”—­the voice was imperious.

“Would that be wise, Princess?”

“Wise?”

“Yes.  Don’t you see?”

He waited for an answer.  There was blank electric current whirring faintly on his ear.  He thought she had rung off—­rung off not only this conversation, but all converse in the future.  At last, after the waiting of despair, came the voice, curiously meek.  “Can you come Friday?”

“With joy and delight.”  The words gushed out tempestuously.

“Good.  At five o’clock.  And leave your John Bull wisdoril on the doorstep.”

She rang off abruptly, and Paul stood ruminating puzzlewise on the audacious behest.

On Friday he presented himself at her house in Berkeley Square.  He found her gracious, but ironical in attitude, very much on the defensive.  She received him in the Empire drawing room—­very stiff and stately in its appointments.  It had the charm (and the intrinsic value) of a museum; it was as cosy as a room (under present arrangements) at Versailles.  The great wood fire alone redeemed it from artistic bleakness.  Tea was brought in by portentous, powdered footmen in scarlet and gold.  She was very much the princess; the princess in her state apartments, a different personage from the pretty woman in a boudoir.  Paul, sensitive as far as it is given man to be, saw that if he had obeyed her and left his John Bull wisdom on the doorstep, he would have regretted it.  Obviously she was punishing him; perhaps herself; perhaps both of them.  She kept a wary, appraising eye on him, as they talked their commonplaces.  Paul’s attitude had the correctness of a young diplomatist paying a first formal call.  It was only when he rose to go that her glance softened.  She laughed a queer little laugh.

“I hear that you are going to address a meeting in the North of London next week.”

“That is so,” said Paul; “but how can my unimportant engagements have come to the ears of Your Highness?”

“I read my newspapers like everybody else.  Did you not know that there were announcements?”