For what other man in the world would she dine at six and spend the evening in a stuffy hall in North London?
He felt fired to great achievement.

He would make her proud of him, his Princess, his own beautiful, stately, royal Princess.

The dream had come true.

He loved a Princess; and she--?
If she cared naught for him, why was she cheerfully contemplating a six-o'clock dinner?
And why did she do a thousand other things which crowded on his memory?
Was he loved?
The thought thrilled him.

Here was no beautiful seductress of suspect title such as he had heard of during his sojourn in the Gotha Almanack world, but the lineal descendant of a princely house, the widow of a genuinely royal, though deboshed personage.