Inspired with the knowledge that his Excellency was dining at Buckingham Palace, Alexander O'Mulligan began to pound away more heartily than ever upon the upright grand.
"Give your imitation of church bells and a barrel organ, Alec," said a humble admirer, insinuating a trifle more ease into his bearing.
"Do you think they will mind if we smoke here?" said Brasset, plaintively. "I am dying for a cigarette."
However, before the Master of the Crackanthorpe could have recourse to this aid to his existence, Fitz returned. He was alone, and he was peremptory.
"What an infernal din you fellows kick up!" He fixed his dæmonic gaze upon the amateur middle-weight champion. "Leave that piano and come and be presented to my wife."
At last we were coming to the horses. There was a perceptible squaring of shoulders and a shooting of cuffs, and then Fitz led the way out of the room, followed by Coverdale and the rest of us in review order. We were conducted up another marble staircase and along a lengthy corridor, through a succession of reception-rooms, until at last we found ourselves in an apartment larger and more ornate than all the others. Its sombre richness was truly imposing. Pictures, tapestry, candelabra, carpets and furniture all combined to give it the air of a state chamber.
Three ladies were seated at the far end of this magnificent room. One was the fair musician upon whom Fitz had imposed his will; another was a mature and stately dame, with snow-white hair and patrician features; and the third, reclining upon a chair with a high gilt back, was the "Stormy Petrel," the Crown Princess of Illyria.
As soon as we came into the room the two other ladies rose, leaving the Princess seated in state. Fitz presented each of us with all the formality that the most sensitive royalty could have desired. His manner of recommending us to her Royal Highness was dignified, authoritative and not without grace. As far as we were concerned, I hope our bearing was not lacking in the necessary punctilio.
Hitherto it had been our privilege to see Mrs. Fitz out hunting in her famous scarlet coat, when to be sure she had been the centre of much critical observation. But at such times the princess was merged in the brilliant horsewoman; and it goes to prove how easily "the real thing" may pass for the mere audacity of the intrepid adventuress, if one comes to consider that the bearing of "the circus rider from Vienna" awoke no suspicions in respect of her status.
It would be easy to indulge in a page of reflection upon the subject of Mrs. Fitz. Her style was quite as pronounced in the saddle as it was in the salon, but the experts in that elusive quality had failed, as they do occasionally, to appreciate its authenticity. Doubtless they would have failed again to render the genuine thing its meed, had we not the assurance of Fitz that we were in the presence of the heiress to the oldest monarchy in Europe.