Presently, though, in the thickening shadows she saw a form that made her heart stand still. Could it be? She was probably mistaken—madly mistaken—but something in the way a man down there carried himself made her think of Godmother's little drawing-room in far-off New York and a man who was "playing the game." But the King was talking to this man—talking most interestedly, it seemed. She must be mistaken!
Nevertheless, when the men had all gone in, she put on a white shawl and slipped down on to the terrace. She felt as if she must know; and of course she couldn't ask, for she did not know his name.
The terraces were deserted, and she paced up and down undisturbed, trying to assure herself that Godmother would probably have known if he were in England—his last letter had been from the Far East—and especially if he were coming here. There were times, as she reminded herself, when she was continually seeing him; out of every crowd, suddenly his tall form would seem to emerge; in the loneliness of quiet places, as by miracle he would seem to be where a moment ago she knew there was no one. Then a sense of separation would intervene, and for days she would be given over to the belief that she was never to see him again. To-night was doubtless just one of the times when, for no reason that she could understand, he seemed physically near to her.
She was standing very still in the shadow of an ivy-grown pillar, looking up at the Pole star and wondering if he in his wanderings might not be looking at it too, when a man's voice close beside her made her jump. It was an unfamiliar voice. "Star-gazing?" it said, pleasantly. She turned, and recognized the King.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she answered. At first she thought she was going to be frightened. Then she remembered the Secret, and before she knew it she was deep in conversation with the King.
As she talked, a puzzled expression she could not see came into the King's face. He had a wonderful memory for names, a memory which seldom failed him; but he couldn't place this girl. And it was dark, too, so he couldn't see her. But he liked to hear her talk. She had that rare thing, in his experience, a fresh, sweet view-point. The bloom of enchantment was still on life for her, and as he drew her out, he found that she was refreshing him as nothing had done for a weary while.
Then, kingly obligation called him indoors to join the throng whose everlasting sameness palled on him almost unendurably. Something he said made Mary Alice feel this—made her see, as in a flash, a girl who had gone home, once, from a party and wept because life was so dull. She was sorry for the King!
"I seldom forget a name," he said, "but I—before we go in, won't you please remind me of yours?"
Mary Alice laughed. "Your Majesty has never heard my name," she said, "and I can't go in; I'm not of the party." And she explained.
"I see," he said. "I shall have to thank the Duchess. I have had a most refreshing quarter of an hour."