The prince, regardless of the lady’s bristles, elucidated further:
“Whereas, with us, the matter is not so simple. Conceive of a half battalion in livery to find the boots—under the regulations of the Secret Service Department. Two detectives to unravel the laces. Two gentlemen, from the Interstate Commission of Harmony-Producers, to bring the royal feet and royal boots into juxtaposition. Four to incase the feet in the boots. And, say, half a dozen more to attend to lacing and polishing. So with everything. An army of chemists to test one’s toilet waters and perfumes every time one desires a sniff—for fear some anarchist spy may have dropped poison into them. It becomes irksome. And, at times, we steal forth secretly, climb the palace palings, leap across the orchard, open the front gate of our kingdom and stroll forth, incognito—as you see.”
Corinne gasped “Isn’t it thrilling?”
“Oh, yes,” Rosamond breathed.
Mrs. Witherby was anxious to retrieve herself, feeling that her first essay had not resulted greatly to her honour. She smiled respectfully and began again.
“I hope Your Highness will not think me impertinent—but is Your Highness not related to most of the crowned heads of Europe?”
“You perceive resemblances?”
“Oh, strong ones!” She tossed her head, delighted with herself for this show of intelligence. “Particularly to the Czar of Russia—and the King of Spain. Also Emperor William—about the eyes. Those are the royalties who are most often photographed in the papers. But I daresay Your Highness resembles all the others, too. I believe you are all related? One hears that said.”
“We sprang from a common parent, madam.”
Mr. Marks looked about, proudly, and said: