Ferdinand William Otto stopped and invested part of his allowance
in the forbidden fig lady, with arms and legs of dates, and eyes
of cloves. He had wanted one of these ever since he could
remember, but Miss Braithwaite had sternly refused to authorize
the purchase. In fact, she had had one of the dates placed under
a microscope, and had shown His Royal Highness a number of
interesting and highly active creatures who made their homes
therein.

His Royal Highness recalled all this with great distinctness,
and, immediately dismissing it from his mind, ate the legs and
arms of the fig woman with enjoyment. Which - not the eating of
the legs and arms, of course, but to be able to dismiss what is
unpleasant - is another highly desirable royal trait.

So far his movements had been swift and entirely objective. But
success rather went to his head. He had never been out alone
before. Even at the summer palace there were always tutors, or
Miss Braithwaite, or an aide-de-camp, or something. He
hesitated, took out his small handkerchief, dusted his shoes with
it, and then wiped his face. Behind was the Opera, looming and
gray. Ahead was - the park.

Note the long allee between rows of trees trimmed to resemble
walls of green in summer, and curiously distorted skeletons in
winter; note the coffee-houses, where young officers in uniforms
sat under the trees, reading the papers, and rising to bow with
great clanking and much ceremony as a gold-wheeled carriage or a
pretty girl went by.