“Hush! I have a message for you.”
“From her?” I inquired, not, I fear, without eagerness.
“No,” he replied, “from the prince. He desires that you should be presented to him.”
“Who is he?”
“I forgot. Prince Ferdinand of Glottenberg.”
“Indeed! He’s in London, then?”
“Yes, in that box,” and he pointed to the bored man, and added:
“Come along; he hates being kept waiting.”
“He looks as if he hated most things,” I remarked.