His Highness rang the bell, and when the valet appeared, gave him orders to go and get fifty pounds, which he handed to the clergyman.
Then the pair had luncheon brought up to the room, and as they sat together their conversation was mostly about mutual friends. For a cleric the Reverend Thomas Clayton was an extremely easy-going man, a thorough sportsman of a type now alas! dying out in England.
It was plain to see that they were old friends, and plainer still when, on parting a couple of hours later, the Prince said:
“When I leave here, old fellow, you’ll join me for a little, won’t you? Don’t worry me any more at present for your Confounded—er charities—will you? Fresh air for the children, and whisky for yourself—eh? By Jove, if I hadn’t been a Prince, I’d have liked to have been a parson! Good-bye, old fellow.” And the rubicund cleric shook his friend’s hand heartily and went down the broad staircase.
The instant his visitor had gone he called Charles and asked excitedly:
“Did any one know the Parson came to see me?”
“No, your Highness. I fortunately met him in King’s Road, and brought him up here. He never inquired at the office.”
“He’s a fool! He could easily have written,” cried the Prince eagerly. “Where are those women, I wonder?” he asked, indicating Mrs Jesup and her daughter.
“I told them you would be engaged all the afternoon.”
“Good. I shan’t go out again to-day, Charles. I want to think. Go to them with my compliments, and say that if they would like to use the car for a run this afternoon they are very welcome. You know what to say. And—and see that a bouquet of roses is sent up to the young lady’s room before she goes to dress. Put one of my cards on it.”