* * * * *

Now, although his master was quite oblivious of posts, Tompson was not,
and that Monday he took occasion to go into Lucerne, whence he returned
with a pile of letters, which Paul found on again reaching the
Buergenstock, after staying the night at Flueelen in a little hotel.

That had been an experience! His lady quite childish in her glee at the
smallness and simplicity of everything.

"Our picnic," she called it to Paul--only it was a wonderfully _recherche_
picnic, as Anna of course had brought everything which was required by
heart of sybarite for the passing of a night.

Ah! they had been happy. The Queen had been exquisitely gracious to her
slave, and entranced him more deeply than ever. And here at the
Buergenstock, when he got into his room, his letters stared him in the
face.

"Damned officiousness!" he said to himself, thinking of Tompson.

He did not want to be reminded of any existence other than the dream of
heaven he was now enjoying.

Oh! they were all very real and material, these epistles--quite of earth!
One was from his mother. He was enjoying Lucerne, she hoped, and she was
longing for his return. She expected he also was craving for his home and
horses and dogs. All were well. They--she and his father--were moving up
to the town house in Berkeley Square the following week until the end of