Paul laughed.  “I put them in myself.  You see,” he explained, “we want our Young England League to be as widely known as possible.  The more lambs we can get into the fold, the better.”

“Perhaps if you asked me very prettily,” she said, “I might come and bear you speak.”

“Princess!” His olive cheek flushed with pleasure and his eyes sparkled.  “It would be an undreamed-of honour.  It is such things that angels do.”

“Eh bien, je viendrai.  You ought to speak well.  Couldn’t you persuade them to give the place a better name?  Hickney Heath!  It hurts the roof of one’s mouth.  Tiens—­would it help the Young England League if you announced my name in the newspapers?”

“Dear Princess, you overwhelm me.  But—­”

“Now, don’t ask me if it is wise.”  She smiled in mockery.  “You print the names of other people who are supporting you.  Mr. John Felton, M.P., who will take the chair, Colonel Winwood, M.P., and Miss Winwood, the Dean of Halifax and Lady Harbury, et cetera, et cetera.  Why not poor Princess Sophie Zobraska?”

“You have a good memory, Princess.”

She regarded him lazily.  “Sometimes.  When does the meeting begin?”

“At eight.  Oh, I forget.”  His face fell.  “How can you manage it?  You’ll have to dine at an unearthly hour.”

“What does it matter even if one doesn’t dine—­in a good cause?”

“You are everything that is perfect,” said Paul fervently.

She dismissed a blissful youth.  The Princess Zobraska cared as much for the Young England League as for an Anti-Nose-Ring Society in Central Africa.  Would it help the Young England League, indeed!  He laughed aloud on the lamp-lit pavement of decorous Berkeley Square.  For what other man in the world would she dine at six and spend the evening in a stuffy hall in North London?  He felt fired to great achievement.  He would make her proud of him, his Princess, his own beautiful, stately, royal Princess.  The dream had come true.  He loved a Princess; and she—?  If she cared naught for him, why was she cheerfully contemplating a six-o’clock dinner?  And why did she do a thousand other things which crowded on his memory?  Was he loved?  The thought thrilled him.  Here was no beautiful seductress of suspect title such as he had heard of during his sojourn in the Gotha Almanack world, but the lineal descendant of a princely house, the widow of a genuinely royal, though deboshed personage.  Perhaps you may say that the hero of a fairy-tale never thinks of the mere rank of his beloved princess.  If you do, you are committing all sorts of fallacies in your premises.  For one thing, who said that Paul was a hero?  For another, who said this was a fairy-tale?  For yet another, I am not so sure that the swineherd is not impressed by the rank of his beloved.  You must remember the insistent, lifelong dream of the ragged urchin.  You must also reflect that the heart of any high-born youth