He did his best, although it must be confessed that that best was but poor. When Cyril suggested mildly that it was usual to send presents to the lady in the course of an engagement, he followed his advice, and telegraphed to Paris and Vienna orders for jewellery and objects of art; but he did so with the bitter recollection that he had never given Nadia so much as a keepsake, while here he was showering costly gifts upon a girl for whom he did not care a straw. It was the same with the rides, on which it was the Princess’s will and pleasure that he should accompany her at least once a-day. He had never had the chance of riding with Nadia; but he had little opportunity of forgetting that Princess Ottilie had a splendid seat, and rode like an Englishwoman, as Cyril told her once, assuring her at the same time that it was the highest compliment he could pay her. At first, indeed, Caerleon welcomed the prospect of the rides, as likely to restrict his intercourse with his _fiancée_ to the polite and friendly terms on which he felt it was both right and reasonable they should meet. But he had reckoned without Princess Ottilie, even as he had left out of his calculations the enterprising photographers who travelled from Bellaviste and Eusebia, and arranged cameras in ambush by the side of the road along which the riders were to pass, and the enthusiastic amateurs who took snap-shots at them with kodaks. The Princess had eyes like a hawk, and could detect the most artfully concealed camera some minutes before she came abreast of it, and distinguish a photographic maniac at any distance, and at the crucial moment she would begin a confidential low-toned conversation, which obliged Caerleon to lean politely towards her in order to hear what she said; or she would drop her riding-whip. It was against his principles, she had discovered, to allow the groom to pick it up, and thus she had the pleasure of seeing him dismount and rescue it himself, while the lurking enemy gloated over the negative he had secured, which was destined to appear after the lapse of a week or two, in a more or less appalling guise, in one of the Continental illustrated journals. “It isn’t the riding I mind, but I do bar her tricks,” Caerleon bemoaned himself one day to Cyril, who had witnessed an incident of this kind. “Never mind,” said Cyril. “She only wants to show you off.” “If she carries on much more, I shall cut,” said the victim, gloomily. “Beastly mean, if you do,” said Cyril. “The girl’s awfully gone on you. When I get her alone sometimes, and sing your praises to her, you should see how pleased she is. Don’t be a fool, old man. Any other chap would think himself in clover to have a smart, good-looking girl, and a princess too, in love with him to such an extent.” “Well, I shall get thrown, then. That will stop the rides, at any rate.”