Paul bowed. "But what more beautiful thing can there be than a Frenchwoman with England in her heart? Je ne demande pas mieux."
And the Princess did not put her hands to her ears.
The group passed slowly from the platform through a sort of committee room at the back, and reached the side entrance, Here they lingered, exchanging farewells. The light streamed dimly through the door on the strip of pavement between two hedges of spectators, and on the panelling and brass-work of an automobile by the curb. A chauffeur, with rug on arm, stepped forward and touched his cap, as the Princess appeared, and opened the door of the car. Paul, bare-headed, accompanied her across the pavement. Half way she stopped for a second to adjust a slipping fur. He aided her quickly and received a bright smile of thanks. She entered the car—held out her hand for, his kiss.
"Come and see me soon. I'll write or telephone."
The car rolled away. The Winwoods' carriage drove up.
It was a fighting, enthusiastic, hyperbolic speech, glowing with the divine fire of youth.
"Can we give you a lift home, Paul?" asked Miss Winwood.
"No thanks, dearest lady. There are one or two little things I must do before I go."
"Good night."
"Good night, Paul," said Colonel Winwood, shaking hands. "A thundering good speech."