They made their way through the foyer to the round table which had been reserved for them in the centre of the restaurant.
“I suppose I ought to apologize for giving you dinner at such an hour,” the Duchess remarked, “but it is our theatrical managers who are to blame. Why they cannot understand that the best play in the world is not worth more than two hours of our undivided attention, and begin everything at nine or a quarter-past, I cannot imagine.”
The Prince smiled.
“Dear Duchess,” he said, “I think that you are a nation of sybarites. Everything in the world must run for you so smoothly or you are not content. For my part, I like to dine at this hour.”
“But then, you take no luncheon, Prince,” Lady Grace reminded him.
“I never lunch out,” the Prince answered, “but I have always what is sufficient for me.”
“Tell me,” the Duchess asked, “is it true that you are thinking of settling down amongst us? Your picture is in the new illustrated paper this week, you know, with a little sketch of your career. We are given to understand that you may possibly make your home in this country.”
The Prince smiled, and in his smile there seemed to be a certain mysticism. One could not tell, indeed, whether it came from some pleasant thought flitting through his brain, or whether it was that the idea itself was so strange to him.
“I have no plans, Duchess,” he said. “Your country is very delightful, and the hospitality of the friends I have made over here is too wonderful a thing to be described; but one never knows.”
Lady Grace bent towards Sir Charles, who was sitting by her side.