I was now going to my chair, which waited, when I met the royal family crossing the stage. I was again honoured with a very marked and low bow from the Prince of Wales. On my return home, I had a party to supper; and the whole conversation centred in encomiums on the person, graces, and amiable manners of the illustrious heir-apparent. Within two or three days of this time, Lord Malden made me a morning visit. Mr. Robinson was not at home, and I received him rather awkwardly. But his lordship's embarrassment far exceeded mine. He attempted to speak--paused, hesitated, apologised; I knew not why. He hoped I would pardon him; that I would not mention something he had to communicate; that I would consider the peculiar delicacy of his situation, and then act as I thought proper. I could not comprehend his meaning, and therefore requested that he would be explicit. After some moments of evident rumination, he tremblingly drew a small letter from his pocket. I took it, and knew not what to say. It was addressed to Perdita. I smiled, I believe rather sarcastically, and opened the _billet_. It contained only a few words, but those expressive of more than common civility; they were signed Florizel.[37] "Well, my lord, and what does this mean?" said I, half angry. "Can you not guess the writer?" said Lord Malden. "Perhaps yourself, my lord," cried I, gravely. "Upon my honour, no," said the viscount. "I should not have dared so to address you on so short an acquaintance." I pressed him to tell me from whom the letter came. He again hesitated; he seemed confused, and sorry that he had undertaken to deliver it. "I hope that I shall not forfeit your good opinion," said he; "but--" "But what, my lord?" "I could not refuse--for the letter is from the Prince of Wales." I was astonished; I confess that I was agitated; but I was also somewhat skeptical as to the truth of Lord Malden's assertion. I returned a formal and a doubtful answer, and his lordship shortly after took his leave. A thousand times did I read this short but expressive letter. Still I did not implicitly believe that it was written by the prince; I rather considered it as an experiment made by Lord Malden, either on my vanity or propriety of conduct. On the next evening the viscount repeated his visit. We had a card-party of six or seven, and the Prince of Wales was again the subject of unbounded panegyric. Lord Malden spoke of his Royal Highness's manners as the most polished and fascinating; of his temper as the most engaging; and of his mind, the most replete with every amiable sentiment. I heard these praises, and my heart beat with conscious pride, while memory turned to the partial but delicately respectful letter which I had received on the preceding morning.