In February she would attend the "Masque of Lovers Made Men" as would the King and Queen. The Lord Mayor would be there as well as the Duke of Lenox and Lord Hay, the entertainment being in honor of the French ambassador. Rolfe, piqued at his own unimportance at these festive occasions, wrote a political and economic treatise on the colony. Pocahontas objected to any plans for an early return home. The Lady Rebecca liked London, even though the foggy climate was giving her a hacking cough that worried Rolfe, who wanted her to get on to the country to meet his family. Neither rolling wagons and carriages on the cobblestone street, nor roistering revellers downstairs beneath their lodgings disturbed her, she said. Naïve, ordinary Indians did not admit themselves so pleased as she was. John Smith ran into Uttamatomakkin in London. "Powhatan did bid me to find you out to show me your God, the King, Queen, and Prince, you so much told us of." "God is not to be seen by human eye. The King you have seen. And the rest you shall see when you choose." The Indian shook his head. "Nay, not yet have I seen the King." "You did see him, just yesterday," insisted Smith. "He did not look as much like a king as our Powhatan. And he didn't give me a present. You gave Powhatan a white dog, which Powhatan fed as himself; but your king gave me nothing, and I am better than your white dog." He had long since given up counting white men since he was quickly weary of that task. Smith could not do anything about that, but he could and did go calling on the Rolfes, having no idea that Pocahontas considered him long under the sod. He knew that now as the pet of society in London, she must have changed, but he had not known how much, and he was impressed with her formal appearance when he went to Brentford to see her. "The Lady Rebecca!" he greeted her with a flourishing bow. Suddenly the Lady Rebecca in her stiff, swishing London costume vanished, and only a forlorn little maid was left. Her beating heart, like her frivolous London mood, nearly stopped with pain at this spectre from the past! There stood the one she had thought dead, come alive, too late to be alive for her. She who had saved him, and lost him, had found him too late, once again--or was it? Her heart seemed bare and wounded, although she was not disillusioned in the stocky figure in the shabby clothes of this man who was old in his thirties, because he had lived too many lives in one. His figure was paunchy and his eyes bloodshot, but she was blind to imperfections in her hero, for she saw him only in the colors of her caressing brush. He had come true in the make-believe world where he was the greatest wonder of all for the little princess, but this boon which she craved most was probably not for her. "They told me you were dead," she muttered dully.