Pleased with her successful morning's trade and encouraged by the King's ebullient good-humour, the barmaid sat down at the royal table, and began to tell the King her family affairs and questioned him with maternal solicitude. When, at last, the hour of departure struck, they shook hands with each other warmly. Some time afterwards, the King was passing through Dax by rail and, as the train steamed into the station, said to me: "I have an acquaintance at Dax. I'll show her to you: she is charming." The plump Béarnaise was there, more moustachioed than ever. I will not attempt to describe her comic bewilderment at recognising her former customer in the person of the King. He was delighted and, giving her his hand: "You won't refuse to say How-do-you-do to me, I hope?" he asked, laughing. The thing turned her head; what was bound to happen happened: she became indiscreet. From that time onwards, she looked into every train that stopped at Dax, to see if "her friend" the King was among the passengers; and, when, instead of stepping out on the platform, he satisfied himself with giving her a friendly nod from behind the pane, she felt immensely disappointed: in fact, she was even a little offended. The Cambo post-mistress and the Dax barmaid are not the only people who boast of having been taken in by Alfonso XIII. His turn for waggery was sometimes vented upon grave and serious men. Dr. Moure, of Bordeaux, who attended the young monarch when his nose was operated upon, has a story to tell. He was sent for, one day, to San Sebastian and was waiting for his illustrious patient in a room at the Miramar Palace, when the door opened quickly and there entered a most respectable lady, dressed in silk flounces and wearing a wig and spectacles. Not having the honour of her acquaintance, he made a deep bow, to which she replied with a stately courtesy. "It must be the _camerera-major_," he thought to himself. "She looks tremendously eighteenth-century." But suddenly a great burst of laughter shook the venerable dowager's frame from head to foot, her spectacles fell from her nose, her wig dropped likewise and a clarion voice cried: "Good-morning, doctor! It's I!" It was the King. The chapter of anecdotes is inexhaustible. And it is not difficult to picture how this playful simplicity, combined with a delicacy of feeling and a knightly grace to which, in our age of brutal realism, we are no longer accustomed, made an utter conquest of the pretty English princess. When, after several days of familiar and daily intimacy, it became necessary to say good-bye--the princess was returning to England to busy herself with preparations for her marriage, Alfonso to Madrid for the same reason--when the moment of separation had come, there was a pang at the heart on both sides. And, as I was leaving with the princess for Paris: