All these questions we answered as best we could, the
Prince apparently seizing the gist, or essential part of
our answer, before we had said it.
In concluding the discussion we ventured to ask His
Highness for his autograph. The Prince, who has perhaps
a more exquisite sense of humour than any other sovereign
of Europe, declared with a laugh that he had no pen.
Still roaring over this inimitable drollery, we begged
the Prince to honour us by using our own fountain-pen.
"Is there any ink in it?" asked the Prince--which threw
us into a renewed paroxysm of laughter.
The Prince took the pen and very kindly autographed for
us seven photographs of himself. He offered us more, but
we felt that seven was about all we could use. We were
still suffocated with laughter over the Prince's wit;
His Highness was still signing photographs when an equerry
appeared and whispered in the Prince's ear. His Highness,
with the consummate tact to be learned only at a court,
turned quietly without a word and left the room.
We never, in all our experience, remember seeing a
prince--or a mere man for the matter of that--leave a
room with greater suavity, discretion, or aplomb. It was
a revelation of breeding, of race, of long slavery to
caste.
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