It was a delightfully warm, peaceful spring day, and the perfume of the hyacinths and daffodils that were in full bloom almost overpowered the slight odour of petrol from the neighbouring garage.
"It's a curious coincidence," observed Tony, as the waiter retired after placing their coffee on a small table beside them, "but as a matter of fact I feel in exactly the right frame of mind for listening to the truth. I expect it's that bottle of burgundy we had."
He struck a match and held it out to Isabel, who, bending forward, lighted the cigarette which she had been twisting about between her fingers.
"It's—it's dreadfully difficult to tell things," she said, sitting up and looking at him rather helplessly. "I haven't the least notion how to begin."
"Of course it's difficult," said Tony. "Nothing requires so much practice as telling the truth. It's against every civilized impulse in human nature." He paused. "Suppose we try the catechism idea for a start. I ask you 'what is your name?' and you say 'Isabel Francis.'"
She shook her head. "But—but it isn't," she faltered. "It's—it's Isabella, and there are about eight other names after it."
Tony looked at her in surprise. "Why that's exactly the complaint I am suffering from. I thought it was peculiar to baronets and superfluous people of that sort."
"Well, the fact is," began Isabel; then she stopped. "Oh, I know it sounds too utterly silly," she went on with a sort of hurried desperation, "but you see the fact is I—I'm a queen."
She brought out the last three words as if she were confessing some peculiarly shameful family secret.
Tony slowly removed his cigarette from his lips.