"Extremely," said Udo. "I have never actually written any or indeed read much, but I have a great admiration for those who—er—admire it. But it was not to talk about poetry that I came out here, Countess."
"No?" said Belvane. "But your Royal Highness must have read the works of Sacharino, the famous bard of Araby?"
"Sacharino, of course. 'Blood for something, something——He who something——' I mean, it's a delightful little thing. Everybody knows it. But it was to talk about something very different that I——"
"Blood for blood and shoon for shoon,
He who runs may read my rune,"
quoted Belvane softly. "It is perhaps Sacharino's most perfect gem."
"That's it," cried Udo excitedly. "I knew I knew it, if only I could——" He broke off suddenly, remembering the circumstances in which he had wanted it. He coughed importantly and explained for the third time that he had not come to talk to her about poetry.
"But of course I think his most noble poem of all," went on Belvane, apparently misunderstanding him, "is the ode to your Royal Highness upon your coming-of-age. Let me see, how does it begin?
"Prince Udo, so dashing and bold,
Is apparently eighteen years old.
It is eighteen years since
This wonderful Prince
Was born in the Palace, I'm told."
"These Court Poets," said Udo, with an air of unconcern, "flatter one, of course."
If he expected a compliment he was disappointed.