Fatigued by the exertion of dressing, Prin had sunk wearily on to a chair; but, as the nurse spoke, she rose with fresh elasticity in her bearing.
"Good-bye, Bert," she said carelessly. "Oh, do you want me to kiss you? Then you should not have such a black face. It's not fit to kiss."
Nevertheless she kissed it, though in gingerly fashion.
"You'll send me a letter, won't you, Prin?" he said imploringly.
"Oh yes, I'll send you a letter," she said.
"And you'll come back—you'll be sure to come back?"
"Yes, I'll come back—some time," said the Princess loftily.
Then with the nurse's help, she got into the cab; and seating herself, looked round with an air of queenly importance on the little crowd which had gathered to witness her departure.
"Good-bye," she said, nodding graciously to those she recognised; "Good-bye."
The cab drove off, pursued for some little distance by a number of ragged and shouting children. But Bert was not amongst these. He stood on the edge of the pavement and watched till the cab turned the corner of the street; then he ran down the area steps, and crouching in the gloomiest corner of the dismal place he called his home, he gave way to the tears which could no longer be held back. The Princess had been his ruler and tyrant, but he loved her as even those who tyrannize are sometimes loved. She was the centre of his life, and his existence seemed empty and meaningless now that she had left him alone.