“Am I speaking to milord Quorn?” asked a page bearing a salver of gold.
“You are, boy.”
“Then I have the honour, milord, to be the bearer of a note to milord from my mistress, Her Select Highness the Princess Baba.”
“Well, don’t shout the glad news all over the Cloak-Room,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“Go tell Her Highness,” said my lord to the boy, “that I shall beg the honour of the first dance with her.”
“Milord, I go!” said the page, and went.
“I don’t like that boy,” said Mr. Woodhouse Adams.
“This note,” said Lord Quorn, “touches me very nearly.”
“Good Lord, Condor, she doesn’t want to borrow money from you already! Gad, my father was right when he told me on his death-bed never to have any financial dealings with Royalty. His exact words were: ‘It takes four Greeks to get the better of a Jew, three Jews to deal with an Armenian, two Armenians to a Scot, and the whole damn lot together to withstand the shock of Royalty in search of real-estate.’”
“My friend, there is but a line in this letter, yet I would not exchange this one line for all the rhapsodies of the poets. For in this one line,” sighed Lord Quorn, “the Princess Baba tells me that she loves me.”