He didn’t forget his ancient cronies, though; and I was only one of those whom he invited to come and stay with him in his Palace. I came, and stayed.... eleven months! That seems egregious; but what will you say of another of us, Arthur Fleet (or Florimond, as their Majesties have nicknamed him), who came at the same time, and has stayed ever since? The fact is, the King is a tenacious as well as a delightful host; if he once gets you within his portals, he won’t let you go without a struggle. “We do bore ourselves so improbably out here, you know,” he explains. “The society of a Christian is a thing we’d commit a crime for.” Theodore’s consort, Anéli Isabella, Kroleva Tcherrnnogory—vide the Almanach de Gotha—is the third daughter of the late Prince Maximilian of Wittenburg; sister, therefore, to that young Prince Waldemar who comes almost every year to England, and with whose name and exploits as a yachtsman all conscientious students of the daily press will be familiar; and cousin to the reigning Grand Duke Ernest. Theoretically German, she is, however, to all intents and purposes, French; for her mother, the Princess Célestine (of Bourbon-Morbihan), was a Frenchwoman, and, until her marriage, I fancy that more than half of Anéli’s life was passed between Nice and Paris. She openly avows, moreover, that she “detests Germany, the German language, the German people, and all things German, and adores France and the French.” And her political sympathies are entirely with the Franco-Russ alliance. She is a deliciously pretty little lady, with curling soft-brown hair, a round, very young-looking face, a delicate rose-and-ivory complexion, and big, bright, innocent brown eyes—innocent, yet with plenty of potential archness, even potential mischief, lurking in them. She has beautiful full red lips, besides, and exquisite little white teeth. Florimond wrote a triolet about her once, in which he described her as “une fleur en porcelaine.” Her Majesty repudiated the phrase indignantly. “Why not say a wax-doll, and be done with it?” she demanded. All the same, “fleur en porcelaine” does, in a manner, suggest the general effect of her appearance, its daintiness, its finish, its crisp chiselling, its clear, pure colour. Whereas, nothing could be more misleading than “wax-doll,” for there is character, character, in every molecule of her person. The Queen’s character, indeed, is what I wish I could give some idea of It is peculiar, it is distinctive; to me, at any rate, it is infinitely interesting and diverting; but, by the same token—if I may hazard so to qualify it—it is a trifle.... a trifle.... difficult. “You’re such an arbitrary gent!” I heard Florimond complain to her, one day. (I heard and trembled, but the Queen only laughed.) And that will give you an inkling of what I mean.