"I have not forgotten that," he said. "Be sure that I shall exact full reparation. Let me see; _which_ is the way to her garden?" Hyacinth did not know quite what to make of her guest. At the moment when she first saw him in his proper form the improvement on his late appearance had been so marked that he had seemed almost the handsome young Prince of her dreams. Every minute after that had detracted from him. His face was too heavy, his manner was too pompous; one of these days he would be too fat. Moreover he was just a little too sure of his position in her house. She had wanted his help, but she did not want so much of it as she seemed to be likely to get. Udo, feeling that it was going to be rather a nice day, went into Belvane's garden. He had been there once before; it seemed to him a very much prettier garden this morning, and the woman who was again awaiting him much more desirable. Belvane made room for him on the seat next to her. "This is where I sit when I write my poetry," she said. "I don't know if your Royal Highness is fond of poetry?" "Extremely," said Udo. "I have never actually written any or indeed read much, but I have a great admiration for those who--er--admire it. But it was not to talk about poetry that I came out here, Countess." "No?" said Belvane. "But your Royal Highness must have read the works of Sacharino, the famous bard of Araby?" "Sacharino, of course. 'Blood for something, something----He who something----' I mean, it's a delightful little thing. Everybody knows it. But it was to talk about something very different that I----" "_Blood for blood and shoon for shoon,_ _He who runs may read my rune,_" quoted Belvane softly. "It is perhaps Sacharino's most perfect gem." "That's it," cried Udo excitedly. "I knew I knew it, if only I could----" He broke off suddenly, remembering the circumstances in which he had wanted it. He coughed importantly and explained for the third time that he had not come to talk to her about poetry. "But of course I think his most noble poem of all," went on Belvane, apparently misunderstanding him, "is the ode to your Royal Highness upon your coming-of-age. Let me see, how does it begin? "_Prince Udo, so dashing and bold,_ _Is apparently eighteen years old._ _It is eighteen years since_ _This wonderful Prince_ _Was born in the Palace, I'm told._" "These Court Poets," said Udo, with an air of unconcern, "flatter one, of course." If he expected a compliment he was disappointed. "There I cannot judge," said Belvane, "until I know your Royal Highness better." She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. "Is your Royal Highness very--dashing?" "I--er--well--er--one--that is to say." He waded on uncomfortably, feeling less dashing every moment. He should have realised at once that it was an impossible question to answer.