But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then. Madame Petrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, after becoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister in several succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at foreign Courts, first St. Petersburg, then Berlin, and then Constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.
Even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whispered that his Majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept the portfolio of Finance or of Commerce. But he steadily declined. As a statesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by Europe, and none knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yet for private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the Cromwell Road to returning to all the worries of State and those eternal bickerings in the Servian Skuptchina.
He was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupulous honesty. Had he been dishonest in his dealings he might have amassed a great fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries. But he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even though comparatively poor.
“Well?” asked Max, after a long silence. “I am waiting.”
“It is a matter to which I refer not without some hesitation,” declared his friend. “I want to speak to you about Maud.”
“About Maud. Well?”
“I am worried about the child—a good deal.”
“For what reason?” asked Max, considerably surprised.
Maud was Petrovitch’s only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteen years of age, who had been brought up in England and to whom he was entirely devoted.
“Well, she has fallen in love.”