Mary Jesup stepped out, full of girlish enthusiasm. Her only regret was that the people idling in the hall of the hotel could not be told that their companion was a real live Prince.
They took tea under an awning overlooking the sea, and his Highness was particularly gracious towards Mrs Jesup, until both mother and daughter were filled with delight at his pleasant companionship. He treated both women as equals; his manner, as they afterwards put it, being devoid of any side, and yet he was every inch a prince.
That run was the first of many they had together.
Robert K. Jesup had been suddenly summoned by cable to Paris on business connected with his mining interests, therefore his wife and daughter remained in Brighton. And on account of their presence the Prince lingered there through another fortnight. Mostly he spent his days walking or motoring with Mrs Jesup and her daughter, and sometimes—on very rare occasions—he contrived to walk with Mary alone.
One morning, when he had been with her along the pier listening to the band, he returned to luncheon to find in his own room a rather tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged clergyman, whose round face and ruddy complexion gave him rather the air of a bon vivant.
Sight of his unexpected visitor caused the Prince to hold his breath for a second. It was the Parson.
“Sorry I was out,” his Highness exclaimed. “Charles told you where I was, I suppose?”
“Yes, Prince,” replied the cleric. “I helped myself to a whisky and soda. Hope you won’t mind. It was a nice morning in town, so I thought I’d run down to see you.”
“You want another fifty, I suppose—eh?” asked his Highness sharply. “Some other work of charity—eh?”
“My dear Prince, you’ve guessed it at once. You are, indeed, very good.”