Was I a princess born in a democratic age? Or was I living in the age of chivalry, or at the vanished Court of Versailles? Before me, as I went to the dais, stood an Emperor as unshaken in the belief that he possessed godlike qualities as Charlemagne when a Pope set the unexpected crown upon his brow, or, as the _Roi Soleil_, unflattered by worship he believed to be his due. It seemed that I should have been one of those Infantas of Velasquez in a brocade dress and fluttering a little fan. The impression the Kaiser made on me that morning of the _Ordensfest_ was not new, though it came with fresh, almost startling, force. I had known him years before as Prince Wilhelm--a simple and unaffected youth. Then he became Crown Prince, and I noted a change. His manner became more imperious, less spontaneous. I felt that he was schooling himself, holding himself in check, conscious of the burden of coming responsibilities, fearing, yet longing for, the golden irksomeness of the Imperial crown. Since he has ascended the throne, I have never met him without realising that he is dominated by the belief that he is an instrument in the hands of the Almighty, divinely appointed to reign. As he conferred orders and decorations on the stream of men who humbly approached his throne at the _Ordensfest_, I could see from their reverence and from the look of awe on their faces that his manner, his regal pose, his glance, had forced them to accept his own belief in the majesty and righteousness of kingship. But when we had passed to the great banqueting-hall he forgot for a moment to be godlike, and became the unpretentious Prince Wilhelm of the past. We sat at a table on a dais, looking down on the great company invited to enjoy the Emperor’s hospitality, and we were served by young nobles. The page who had carried my train--a handsome boy who looked about twenty--stood behind my chair and handed dishes or filled my glass with the skill of a practised footman. It was the first time that a foreign princess had been present at the _Ordensfest_, and I had received a hint that it was customary to send the page who served one a present the following day, and I had learnt that there was an unwritten law that the present should be a watch. I was sitting next the Emperor and suddenly he turned to my page with an almost roguish smile. “You are a happy boy,” he said, “to have the privilege to serve the beautiful Infanta.” Sovereigns always know how to flatter. “What present would you like her to give you?” “Sire,” answered the page, “there is nothing I should like Her Royal Highness to give me so much as the flower that caresses her neck.” It was a courtly and charming reply. “You must give it him,” said the Emperor gaily, and of course I did. And the page kept the flower. “The deity has come down from its pedestal,” I said to the Emperor, when I had given the boy the flower, and we both laughed.