“No, I did better still. I looked as if I simply worshipped the ground he trod on. And I felt it too--really felt it.” “With other people present?” “Of course. It would have been too dangerous otherwise. And then he asked me where all the children were.” “What children?” “Oh! I said I was one of a large family, you know: drunken father--and six children--me the eldest--the next one about eight.” “They never believed that?” “Of course they did. The only time men don’t believe you is when you’re speaking the truth--at least, taking them out of business hours. They’re worse then; they won’t even believe you then when you’re telling lies.” “And that was all of your visit. You came away then?” “No. He--he wants to reform me--make me give up begging. I think he thinks I would make a good nun. He says it is a disgrace anybody should be dressed in rags.” “He is an honourable gentleman. I always knew it. I wonder your royal highness does not shame to behave as you insist on doing?” “There was never any shame attached to royalty. It’s a base feeling that belongs purely to the lower orders. If you are _really_ royal you are born without shame, live without it--die without it. Don’t speak to me about anything so plebeian again, Alice.” “Then you have promised to reform?” said Alice, much sat on, and but imperfectly understanding. But Marigold’s face beamed out once more all smiles and dimples. “Oh no; he is too _clever_ to believe in promises. He has asked for our address.” “Sakes alive! Sakes alive! Princess, we’re done for. All the priests knowing where we live. And that white-haired man with the little body and big eyes. Oh! I daren’t stay here any longer, I dare not really.” “Alice, you are a much braver woman than you take yourself to be. You will certainly stay.” “Not if he is coming.” “Which _he_?” “The man we saw this morning.” “No one will ever think of coming except a very respectably dressed priest of the lower orders, or perhaps a sister from the convents. And they have most of them very sweet faces. I think I should like the sisters.” “They wouldn’t like you, if they knew what you are about.” “But I should never tell them. All the same, I hope they don’t come. Women won’t laugh and be easy with you--not religious women. When the High Priest asked me my address, I was so afraid I told him wrong, and he would have believed me, only his friend laughed and said there was no such address in the town. Then he was very displeased with me. He spoke to me as if I were nothing but the poorest beggar, and he--oh! far above me; and then was when I loved him. I suppose it _must_ be love, for I felt I should never leave him--till--till he knew I was a princess, even in my rags. He had no business to speak to me so, even if I had told him lies. I am too beautiful. I can speak his language better than he can speak himself--I wasn’t made to be spoken to harshly, and I won’t be.” “Did you tell him all that--and with the others present?”