His Royal Highness the Crown Prince Ferdinand William Otto was in
disgrace.

He had risen at six, bathed, dressed, and gone to Mass, in
disgrace. He had breakfasted at seven-thirty on fruit, cereal,
and one egg, in disgrace. He had gone to his study at eight
o'clock for lessons, in disgrace. A long line of tutors came and
went all morning, and he worked diligently, but he was still in
disgrace. All morning long and in the intervals between tutors
he had tried to catch Miss Braithwaite's eye.

Except for the most ordinary civilities, she had refused to look
in his direction. She was correcting an essay in English on Mr.
Gladstone, with a blue pencil, and putting in blue commas every
here and there. The Crown Prince was amazingly weak in commas.
When she was all through, she piled the sheets together and wrote
a word on the first page. It might have been "good." On the
other hand, it could easily have been "poor." The motions of the
hand are similar.

At last; in desperation, the Crown Prince deliberately broke off
the point of his pencil, and went to the desk where Miss
Braithwaite sat, monarch of the American pencil-sharpener which
was the beloved of his heart.

"Again!" said Miss Braithwaite shortly. And raised her
eyebrows.

"It's a very soft pencil," explained the Crown Prince. "When I
press down on it, it - it busts."