She was, however, most intent on bringing forward the story of her wrongs before the public; and she was doubtless encouraged in this by a party, some members of which, without any of the sympathy which they affected to feel, looked upon her as an admirable tool wherewith to shape their particular and political ends. In the meantime the dinner parties at Kensington were of a joyous and unrestrained character. The Princess had poets and philosophers at her table when the royal fugitives from France invented maladies as an excuse for not visiting her, and she gained by the exchange; but, strange to say, with a very liberal income, irregularly paid, perhaps, she was as poor as the poets, and had not the consolation of philosophy. The house of Drummond and Co. declined to advance her the poor sum of 500_l._, although she is said to have offered to pay _cent. per cent._ for the loan. Probably the stupendous liberality promised by the would-be borrower rendered the bankers suspicious. As she failed to acquire all the public sympathy which she thought herself entitled to by her condition, she became at once more melancholy and more recklessly mirthful. The dinner-parties, beginning late, continued to sit till dawn. On one of these heavily entertaining occasions, one of the guests, weary of his amusement, ventured to hint that morning was at hand. ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the Princess, ‘God, he knows when we may meet again.’ And then, using her favourite expression, she added, ‘_To tell you God’s truth_, when I am happy and comfortable I would sit on for ever.’ The describer of this scene says: ‘There was heaviness in the mirth, and every one seemed to feel it; so they sat on. At last one rose from the table, many of the guests went away, some few lingered in the drawing-room, amongst whom I was one. I was left the last of all. Scarcely had Sir H. Englefield, Sir William Gell, and Mr. Craven reached the drawing-room, when a long and protracted roll of thunder echoed all around, and shook the palace to the very foundations; a bright light shone into the room, brighter than the beams of the sun; a violent hissing noise followed, and some ball of electric fluid, very like that which is represented on the stage, seemed to fall close to the window where we were standing. Scarcely had we recovered the shock, when all the gentlemen, who had gone out, returned, and Sir H. Englefield informed us that the sentinel at the door was knocked down, a great portion of the gravel walk torn up, and every servant and soldier was terrified. “Oh!” said the Princess, undismayed, but solemnly, “this forbodes my downfall,” and she shook her head; then rallying, she desired Sir H. Englefield to take especial notice of this meteoric phenomenon, and give an account of it in the “Philosophical Transactions;” which he did.’[13]