It was quite like old times, yet not so very old, only a few years, but years so full of incident that each seemed to have multiplied itself by ten. In those few years I had changed from a boy into a man, from a commoner into a king; and it may safely be surmised that such changes must have a considerable effect on anyone.
They were rich years for me to look back upon and so full of mental, and perhaps moral wealth, that I was almost fearful of their effect upon me. I was afraid that I should lose my youth before the time, that manhood's cares would sap the joy of life within me, and, by so doing, injure the power I had to feel and sympathise with the many defects in human nature.
My mother, to whom I had spoken of this, agreed that it might be so with some people, but not in my case. A remark which was so intensely human in its mother feeling, that I laughed and said no more.
This dinner à quatre was very enjoyable. We seemed to forget for a while that we were really people of importance in our world, and we laughed and joked with all the old-time zest, and perhaps more; never since my accession had we been so gay and cheerful. Zeula, who seemed to grow younger each month, had a wonderful collection of anecdotes, and his wit was great.
We might have been a party on the stage playing some clever farce, for the conversation never flagged, and even I was witty, which was unusual, since I have never possessed real gifts in that line, although I have, thank God, a sense of humour.
It did me good to look at the three faces I loved so well, and listen to the conversation, noting the difference in their trends of thought.
Zeula, brilliant, polished.
Mr. Neville, dry, rather caustic.
My mother, intensely feminine.
They made, however, a very good combination, and a subject was dissected very thoroughly by the three.