So Paul, spruce in hard felt hat and box-cloth overcoat, clattered joyously through the Morebury streets, returning the salutations of the little notabilities of the town with the air of the owner not only of horse and cart, but of half the hearts in the place.

He was proud of his popularity, and it scarcely entered his head that he was not the proprietor of his equipage.

Besides, he was going to call on the Princess.

He hoped that she would be alone: not that he had anything particular to say to her, or had any defined idea of love-making; but he was eight-and-twenty, an age at which desire has not yet failed and there is not the sign of a burdensome grasshopper anywhere about.
But the Princess was not alone.

He found Mademoiselle de Cressy in charge of the tea-table and the conversation.