as a short parley over this, and it was finally
settled that the officers should serve luncheon, but that there should
be no speeches. The Crown Prince had already learned that his presence
was a sort of rod of Aaron, to unloose floods of speeches. Through what
outpourings of oratory he had sat or stood, in his almost ten years!

"Then that's settled," he said at last. "I'm very happy. This morning I
shall apologize to M. Puaux."

During the remainder of the morning the Crown Prince made various
excursions to the window to see if the weather was holding good. Also
he asked, during his half-hour's intermission, for the great box of lead
soldiers that was locked away in the cabinet. "I shall pretend that
the desk is a fort, Miss Braithwaite," he said. "Do you mind being the
enemy, and pretending to be shot now and then?"

But Miss Braithwaite was correcting papers. She was willing to be a
passive enemy and be potted at, but she drew the line at falling over.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto did not persist. He was far too polite.
But he wished in all his soul that Nikky would come. Nikky, he felt,
would die often and hard.

But Nikky did not come.

Came German and French, mathematics and music and no Nikky. Came at last
the riding-hour--and still no Nikky.

At twelve o'clock, Prince Ferdinand William Otto, clad in his
riding-garments of tweed knickers, puttees, and a belted jacket, stood
by the schoolroom window and looked out. The inner windows of his suite
faced the courtyard, but the schoolroom opened over the Place--a bad
arrangement surely, seeing what distractions to lessons may take place
in a public square, what pigeons feeding in the sun, what bands with
drums and drum-majors, what children flying kites.

"I don't understand it," the Crown Prince said plaintively. "He is
generally very punctual. Perhaps--"

But he loyally refused to finish the sentence. The "perhaps" was a
grievous thought, nothing less than that Nikky and Hedwig were at that
moment riding in the ring together, and had both forgotten him. He was
rather used to being forgotten. With the exception of Miss Braithwaite,
he was nobody's business, really. His aunt forgot him frequently. On
Wednesdays it was his privilege--or not; as you think of it--to take
luncheon with the Archduchess; and once in so often she would forget and
go out. Or be in, and not expecting him, which was as bad.

"Bless us, I forgot the child," she would say on these occ