“Did I say too much?” he asked. “It all came as a surprise to me--the toast and everything connected with it. I saw my name down to reply, and it seemed discourteous of me not to speak. But, as yet, I do not altogether understand these functions. I did not altogether understand, for instance, how much I might say and how much I ought to leave unsaid.” “We have read what you said,” Bransome remarked. “What we should like to hear, if I may venture to say so, is what you left unsaid.” The Prince for a moment was thoughtful. Perhaps he remembered that the days had passed when it was necessary for him to keep so jealously his own counsel. Perhaps his natural love of the truth triumphed. He felt a sudden longing to tell these people who had been kind to him the things which he had seen amongst them, the things which only a stranger coming fresh to the country could perhaps fully comprehend. “What I said was of little importance,” the Prince remarked, “but I felt myself placed in a very difficult position. Before I knew what to expect, I was listening to a glorification of the arms of my country at the expense of Russia. I was being hailed as one of a nation who possess military genius which had not been equalled since the days of Hannibal and Caesar. Many things of that sort were said, many things much too kind, many things which somehow it grieved me to listen to. And when I stood up to reply, I felt that the few words which I must say would sound, perhaps, ungracious, but they must be said. It was one of those occasions which seemed to call for the naked truth.” Penelope and the Duchess had joined the little group. “May we stay?” the former asked. “I read every word of your speech,” she added, turning to the Prince. “Do tell us why you spoke so severely, what it was that you objected to so strongly in General Ennison’s remarks?” The Prince turned earnestly towards her.