Yours, SOPHIE ZOBRASKA.
Paul leaned back in his chair, twiddling the letter between his fingers, and looked smilingly out on the grey autumn rack of clouds.
There was a pleasant and flattering intimacy in the invitation: pleasant because it came from a pretty woman; flattering because the woman was a princess, widow of a younger son of a Royal Balkan house.
She lived at Chetwood Park, on the other side of Morebury, and was one of the great ones of those latitudes.

A real princess.
Paul's glance, travelling back from the sky, fell upon the brass date indicator on the table.

It marked the 2nd of October.

On that day five years ago he had entered on his duties at Drane's Court.

He laughed softly.