The Prince’s first visit, however, was to his old friend, the Rev. Thos. Clayton, whom he found in rather shabby apartments in Rock Terrace seated in an armchair, looking very pale, and quite unlike his usual self.
“I’m sure it’s awfully good of you to become an invalid on my account?” exclaimed the Prince the moment they were alone. “However do you pass your days in this sleepy hollow?”
“By study, my dear boy! Study’s a grand thing! See!” And he exhibited a big dry-as-dust volume on “The Extinct Civilisations of Africa.”
He remained an hour, and then, remounting into the car, drove out along the Tinwell Road, where, half a mile from the town, Mr Northover’s comfortable, red-brick villa was situated. He found the whole family assembled to welcome him—as they had, indeed, been assembled in eager expectation for the past four hours.
Nellie he found looking particularly dainty, with the usual big black velvet bow in her hair, and wearing a neat blouse of cream washing-silk and a short black skirt. She was essentially the type of healthy hockey-playing English girl.
As he grasped her hand and greeted her with formality, he felt it tremble within his grasp. She had kept his secret; of that there was no doubt.
The home life of the Northovers he found quite pleasant. It was so unlike anything he had even been used to. He remained to tea, and he returned there to dine and spend a pleasant evening listening to Nellie’s performances on the piano.
Afterwards, when the ladies had retired as they did discreetly at half-past ten, he sat smoking his “Petroffs” and chatting with Mr Northover.
“I hope you found your friend, the clergyman, better, Prince. Where is he living?”
“Oh, yes; he’s much better, thanks. But he has rather wretched quarters, in a house in Rock Terrace. I’ve urged him to move into an hotel. He says, however, that he hates hotels. He’s such a good fellow—gives nearly all he has to the poor.”