‘Do you indeed believe so?’ cried the Prince. ‘You put life into my heart!’
‘I will give up sketching portraits,’ said the Baronet. ‘I am a blind owl; I had misread you strangely. And yet remember this; a sprint is one thing, and to run all day another. For I still mistrust your constitution; the short nose, the hair and eyes of several complexions; no, they are diagnostic; and I must end, I see, as I began.’
‘I am still a singing chambermaid?’ said Otto.
‘Nay, your Highness, I pray you to forget what I had written,’ said Sir John; ‘I am not like Pilate; and the chapter is no more. Bury it, if you love me.’
CHAPTER IV—WHILE THE PRINCE IS IN THE ANTE-ROOM . . .
Greatly comforted by the exploits of the morning, the Prince turned towards the Princess’s ante-room, bent on a more difficult enterprise. The curtains rose before him, the usher called his name, and he entered the room with an exaggeration of his usual mincing and airy dignity. There were about a score of persons waiting, principally ladies; it was one of the few societies in Grünewald where Otto knew himself to be popular; and while a maid of honour made her exit by a side door to announce his arrival to the Princess, he moved round the apartment, collecting homage and bestowing compliments with friendly grace. Had this been the sum of his duties, he had been an admirable monarch. Lady after lady was impartially honoured by his attention.
‘Madam,’ he said to one, ‘how does this happen? I find you daily more adorable.’
‘And your Highness daily browner,’ replied the lady. ‘We began equal; O, there I will be bold: we have both beautiful complexions. But while I study mine, your Highness tans himself.’
‘A perfect negro, madam; and what so fitly—being beauty’s slave?’ said Otto.—‘Madame Grafinski, when is our next play? I have just heard that I am a bad actor.’
‘O ciel!’ cried Madame Grafinski. ‘Who could venture? What a bear!’