At Bucharest Princess Marie of Roumania had sent all her children to see me at a matinee. The royal box was occupied by a chattering and noisy little regiment of princes, princesses and their friends. When my turn came to go on the lights were turned down and, in the silence that ensued, one could hear distinctly, coming from the royal box, the words:
“Hush. Keep quiet.”
Then, when I appeared:
“Oh, it is a butterfly!”
All this was said in a very high voice. Then I recognised the voice of the oldest of the princesses, the one who is so remarkably like her grandmother, the late Queen Victoria. In a tone of the utmost contempt she declared: “You don’t know what you are talking about. It’s an angel.”
At each change in the dance the oldest of the little princesses made some further remark, explaining everything from her point of view, as if her utterances were authoritative.
Some days later I went to the palace. Princess Marie sent some one to look up the children. They came in one after the other, as timidly as so many middle-class children might in the presence of a stranger.
When the princess explained to them that I was the lady whom they had seen dance at the theatre, the oldest of them did not say a word, but, despite her careful training, her face said plainly enough:
“You don’t fool me. This woman is telling fibs.”
I should have had to dance for them at the palace to convince them that it was really I whom they had taken for an angel. This part of the affair, though already arranged for, was given up at my request. I wanted to avoid disillusioning these children.