The Prince shrugged his shoulders. "It is absurd. I can not spend all the evening being civil to the Tigers, I will not conduct myself en prince if that means I can not not drink a glass of wine with my friends."
"Sir , you are also the General in Command of the Army and not any more a junior aide-de-camp."
The Prince patted his arm. "Constant, mon pauvre, you have not seen - you have not heard! You are dreaming, in fact. Go and look who is here tonight. My poor command is quite at an end."
"Mon Prince, you are still in command, and you must mingle with your guests."
"That's quite true, sir," said Fremantle. "The Duke hasn't taken over the command yet. Duty calls you, General!"
At this moment, and while the Prince still looked recalcitrant, a very tall man with the buff collar and silver lace of the 52nd Regiment appeared between the curtains, and stood silently surveying the group. He was Saxon fair, with ice-blue eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a fighting chin, and was built on splendid lines that were marred only by the droop of his right shoulder, the joint of which had become anchylosed, from a wound incurred in the Peninsula. At sight of him, Lord March straightened himself instinctively, and Colonel Fremantle jumped up from his chair.
The Prince turned his head, and pulled a grimace. "You need not tell me! You are looking for me. First my quarter-master-general, and now my military secretary. Your health, Sir John!"
"Thank you, sir," said Colonel Colborne in his slow deep voice. A smile crept into his eyes. "I thought I should find you with the riffraff of the staff," he remarked. "If I were your Highness, I would return to the ballroom."
"Because my father will be displeased," said the Prince. "I have that by heart."
"No," replied Sir John. "Because his Majesty is more than likely to request the Duke to speak to you, sir."