how no one must speak to a king until the king has first spoken to him;
and she felt that at best it must be a dreary business--being a king.

Presently, though, in the thickening shadows she saw a form that made
her heart stand still. _Could it be_? She was probably
mistaken--madly mistaken--but something in the way a man down there
carried himself made her think of Godmother's little drawing-room in
far-off New York and a man who was "playing the game." But the King
was talking to this man--talking most interestedly, it seemed. She
_must_ be mistaken!

Nevertheless, when the men had all gone in, she put on a white shawl
and slipped down on to the terrace. She felt as if she must know; and
of course she couldn't ask, for she did not know his name.

The terraces were deserted, and she paced up and down undisturbed,
trying to assure herself that Godmother would probably have known if he
were in England--his last letter had been from the Far East--and
especially if he were coming here. There were times, as she reminded
herself, when she was continually seeing him; out of every crowd,
suddenly his tall form would seem to emerge; in the loneliness of quiet
places, as by miracle he would seem to be where a moment ago she knew
there was no one. Then a sense of separation would intervene, and for
days she would be given over to the belief that she was never to see
him again. To-night was doubtless just one of the times when, for no
reason that she could understand, he seemed physically near to her.

She was standing very still in the shadow of an ivy-grown pillar,
looking up at the Pole star and wondering if he in his wanderings might
not be looking at it too, when a man's voice close beside her made her