Part 48 (2/2)
”I've often wondered about you,” said Lady Danesborough, as they were walking down the wide staircase. ”Several things happened to mark that day. For one, I had spilled a bottle of awful scent all over my dress and I was in a state of odoriferous misery.”
Paul laughed boyishly. ”The mystery of my life is solved at last.” He explained, to her frank delight. ”You've not changed a bit,” said he.
”And oh! I can't tell you how good it is to meet you after all these years.”
”I'm very, very glad you feel so,” she said significantly. ”More than glad. I was wondering ... but our dear Princess was right.”
”It seems to me that the Princess has been playing conspirator,” said Paul.
They entered the great dining-room, very majestic with its long, glittering table, its service of plate, its stately pictures, its double row of powdered and liveried footmen, and Paul learned, to his amazement, that in violation of protocols and tables of precedence, his seat was on the right hand of the Princess. Conspiracy again. Hitherto at her parties he had occupied his proper place. Never before had she publicly given him especial mark of her favour.
”Do you think she's right in doing this?” he murmured to Lady Danesborough.
It seemed so natural that he should ask her--as though she were fully aware of all his secrets.
”I think so,” she smiled--as though she too were in the conspiracy.
They halted at their places, and there, at the centre of the long table, on the right of the young Prince stood the Princess, with flushed face and s.h.i.+ning eyes, looking very beautiful and radiantly defiant.
”Mechante,” Paul whispered, as they sat down. ”This is a trap.”
”Je le sais. Tu est bien prise, pet.i.te souris.”
It pleased her to be gay. She confessed unblus.h.i.+ngly. Her little mouse was well caught. The little mouse grew rather stern, and when the great company had settled down, and the hum of talk arisen, he deliberately scanned the table. He met some friendly glances--a Cabinet Minister nodded pleasantly. He also met some that were hostile. His Sophie had tried a dangerous experiment. In Lady Danesborough, the Maisie Shepherd of his urchindom, whose name he had never known, she had a.s.sured him a sympathetic and influential partner. Also, although he had tactfully not taken up that lady's remark, he felt proud of his Princess's glorious certainty that he would have no false and contemptible shame in the encounter. She had known that it would be a joy to him; and it was. The truest of the man was stirred. They talked and laughed about the far-off day. Incidents flaming in his mind had faded from hers. He recalled forgotten things. Now and then she said: ”Yes, I know that.
The Princess has told me.” Evidently his Sophie was a conspirator of deepest dye.
”And now you're the great Paul Savelli,” she said.
”Great?” He laughed. ”In what way?”
”Before this election you were a personage. I've never run across you because we've been abroad so much, you know--my husband has a depraved taste for governing places--but a year or two ago we were asked to the Chudleys, and you were held out as an inducement.”
”Good Lord!” said Paul, astonished.
”And now, of course, you're the most-discussed young man in London. Is he d.a.m.ned or isn't he? You know what I refer to.”
”Well, am I?' he asked pleasantly.
”I'm glad to see you take it like that. It's not the way of the little people. Personally, I've stuck up for you, not knowing in the least who you were. I thought you did the big, s.p.a.cious thing. It gave me a thrill when I read about it. Your speech in the House has helped you a lot. Altogether--and now considering our early acquaintance--I think I'm justified in calling you 'the great Paul Savelli.'”
Then came the s.h.i.+fting of talk. The Prince turned to his left-hand neighbour; Lady Danesborough to her right. Paul and the Princess had their conventional opportunity for conversation. She spoke in French, daringly using the intimate ”tu”; but of all sorts of things--books, theatres, picture shows. Then tactfully she drew the Prince and his neighbour and Lady Danesborough into their circle, and, pulling the strings, she at last brought Paul and the Prince into a discussion over the pictures of the Doges in the Ducal Palace in Venice. The young Prince was gracious. Paul, encouraged to talk and stimulated by precious memories, grew interesting. The Princess managed to secure a set of listeners at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as if carrying on the theme, she said in a deliberately loud voice, compelling attention: ”Your Royal Highness, I am in a dilemma.”
”What is it?”
She paused, looked round and widened her circle. ”For the past year I have been wanting Mr. Savelli to ask me to marry him, and he obstinately refuses to do so. Will you tell me, sir, what a poor woman is to do?”
She addressed herself exclusively to the young Prince; but her voice, with its adorable French intonation, rang high and clear. Paul, suddenly white and rigid, clenched the hand of the Princess which happened to lie within immediate reach. A wave of curiosity, arresting talk, spread swiftly down. There was an uncanny, dead silence, broken only by a raucous voice proceeding from a very fat Lord of Appeal some distance away:
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