Nikky surveyed the scene. He had, of course, bowed inside the door, and all that sort of thing. But Nikky was an informal person, and was quite apt to bow deeply before his future sovereign, and then poke him in the chest.
“Well!” said Nikky.
“Good-morning,” said Prince Ferdinand William Otto, in a small and nervous voice.
“Nothing wrong, is there?” demanded Nikky.
M. Puaux got out his handkerchief and said nothing violently.
“Otto!” said Miss Braithwaite. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” He looked about. He was quite convinced that M. Puaux was what Bobby would have termed a poor sport, and had not played the game fairly. The guard at the railway, he felt, would not have yelled and wept. “Oh, well, I threw a piece of paper. That’s all. I didn’t think it would hurt.”
Miss Braithwaite rose and glanced at the carpet. But Nikky was quick. Quick and understanding. He put his shiny foot over the paper wad.
“Paper!” said Miss Braithwaite. “Why did you throw paper? And at M. Puaux?”
“I—just felt like throwing something,” explained His Royal Highness. “I guess it’s the sun, or something.”