“Yes, your Highness,” replied the valet, and turning, left his master to himself.
The visit of the Reverend Thomas Clayton had, in some way, perturbed and annoyed him. And yet their meeting had been fraught by a marked cordiality.
Presently he flung himself into a big armchair, and lighting one of his choice “Petroffs” which he specially imported, sat ruminating.
“Ah! If I were not a Prince!” he exclaimed aloud to himself. “I could do it—do it quite easily. But it’s my confounded social position that prevents so much. And yet—yet I must tell her. It’s imperative. I must contrive somehow or other to evade that steely maternal eye. I wonder if the mother has any suspicion—whether—?”
But he replaced his cigarette between his lips without completing the expression of his doubts.
As the sunlight began to mellow, he still sat alone, thinking deeply. Then he moved to go and dress, having resolved to dine in the public restaurant with his American friends. Just then Charles opened the door, ushering in a rather pale-faced, clean-shaven man in dark grey tweeds. He entered with a jaunty air and was somewhat arrogant of manner, as he strode across the room.
The Prince’s greeting was greatly the reverse of cordial.
“What brings you here, Max?” he inquired sharply. “Didn’t I telegraph to you only this morning?”
“Yes. But I wanted a breath of sea-air, so came down. I want to know if you’re going to keep the appointment next Monday—or not.”
“I can’t tell yet.”