CHAPTER III.
The prince showed the greatest interest in John Stuart's first essay in relieving him of a tiresome duty. He came home early to receive Sir Horace's report, and, later, as he dressed for dinner, he questioned Bletsoe with the same care and thoroughness.
He seemed most impressed by John Stuart's weighty converse, especially by the fact, which he learned from Sir Horace, that he had firmly impressed his views on the Mayor of Ledford.
“But this is perfectly splendid!” he cried at last, almost with enthusiasm. “If this fellow goes on boring people like this, I shall obtain a magnificent reputation.”
“It will certainly be a different one, your highness,” said Bletsoe, without enthusiasm.
“But it's quite all right,” said the prince. “You don't understand. These people never even guess that they're being bored.”
He was not in the habit of letting the grass grow under his feet, and after breakfast the next morning, he lighted a cigar and sent Bletsoe to ask John Stuart to be so good as to come to him. John Stuart was not in a good temper; for all his iron head, the wines, spirits, and liqueurs of the Corporation of Ledford had not been without their effect on him. He laid aside the Daily Wire and went moodily. The bow with which he prefaced his “Good morning, your highness” was almost painfully stiff.
The prince bade him help himself to a cigar and sit down in an easy-chair by the fireplace, some way from the window by which he was himself sitting. He still felt a repulsion from his double, which he made no effort to overcome, since it was beyond reason. It ruffled some inner sense that John Stuart should be so like him and Charles II. He put him in the shadow so that the likeness should not be too clear.
“I hear that you discharged your duties in a quite satisfactory fashion yesterday, Mr. Stuart,” said the prince.
He had already divined that warm praise would not be good for a young man who esteemed himself as highly as did his worthy double.
“Yes, your highness,” said John Stuart somewhat coldly.
He was regarding the prince with envious eyes and a sense of injury. He felt more strongly than ever that some power had wronged him, that, by virtue of his sterling qualities, he ought to be the real prince. He was sure that the prince was frivolous.
“There's one thing, though. Another time you must not drink so much. In a manufacturing town in the Midlands, like Ledford, it doesn't matter. The mayor and corporation would rather like you for it. But as a rule we make a point of being rather abstemious. Sir Horace ought to have told you. But another time you'll know.”
“Yes, your highness,” said John Stuart with a sudden deepening of his gloom.
A cup, or, rather, to be exact, several cups, had been dashed from his lips.
“Well, I've come to the conclusion that you're sufficiently rehearsed in your part to try a little more delicate work. To-morrow you will lunch at the palace. And I chiefly wanted to speak to you about the talk at lunch. You probably perceive that the less you say, the better.”
“Yes, your highness,” said John Stuart readily.
“Most of the talk will be about people and incidents about which you know nothing. If you are asked any questions, you will, of course, use your judgment about saying 'yes' or 'no' or making an evasive reply. Are you good at evasive replies?”
“I don't think so, your highness.”
He was now giving the prince his most earnest attention.
“I wonder whether Sir Horace could give you a lesson in them. With his exquisite tact, he ought to be an expert in evasive replies. I generally am when I'm being tactful,” said the prince thoughtfully. “When he comes, I'll send him down to you to give you a lesson.”
“Thank you, your highness,” said John Stuart gratefully. Then he added in an apologetic tone: “In the lower branches of the insurance business, there is very little opening for diplomacy.”
“I don't think you'll find the lunch any great strain,” the prince encouraged him. “In this world, most people want to do the talking themselves: It's easy to keep silence—an attentive silence.”
“Oh, yes, your highness,” said John Stuart in a tone of some disappointment.
He had seen himself shining, by solid merit, in the royal circle.
“But if you have to talk—talk exactly as you talked to the Mayor of Ledford yesterday,” said the prince. “It will be appreciated.”
John Stuart's face grew suddenly much brighter, and he said quickly:
“I will, your highness.”
The prince was silent. He seemed to be pondering. Then he said:
“Yes. That's all I can think of at the moment. But I'm pleased to see that you take your new profession really seriously.”
John Stuart rose, bowed, and went to the door.
As he was going out, the prince called:
“Oh, by the way, you're not expected to kiss my aunt. I don't.”
“Yes, your highness.” There was relief in his tone.
He had not been gone long when Sir Horace arrived.
The prince listened to the expression of his satisfaction, and applauded his excellent work with John Stuart. Then he told him that he would have a further opportunity of exercising his admirable talents when he lunched at the palace on the morrow with that worthy and accomplished young fellow.
Sir Horace was taken aback. He would have been quite content to rest on his laurels for a fortnight before attempting a more serious operation. He began to protest. He found the prince, as he had so often found him before, suave, but quite determined.
“But you are quite wrong, my Horace,” said the prince amiably. “My near relations do not know me at all well. Princess Anne every now and then makes a good guess, an extraordinarily good guess, at what I am really thinking, or feeling, or attempting. But she is the soul of discretion, and never dreams of informing any one but me of those guesses.”
“She is remarkably clever, highness,” Sir Horace agreed with warm enthusiasm.
“It isn't her cleverness that's really important. It's her womanliness. That's where her frequently amazing power of intuition comes from,” said the prince, in a gently corrective tone.
“Yes, highness, that's exactly what I mean.”
“And that's what makes her such a splendid ally. She knows exactly when to make excuses for me and when to let those who are abusing me talk themselves out,” the prince continued. “And I owe to her the useful and generally accepted theory in the home circle that really, in spite of all my displays of genuine original sin, I'm merely eccentric. But for her, I should have been dispatched on a perfectly horrid journey round the world. Think of opening something at Singapore!”
“I should have thought your highness would have liked to see the world.”
“In my own way, yes, not officially. But to attempt to hide from the Princess Anne's womanly intuition that I and John Stuart are two would be the most foolish waste of labor. Not that I propose to help her in any way to make the discovery. All things in their season, don't you know? But the rest of my family, as you have heard me say before, are not observant people—at least so far as I am concerned. By the way, I've been talking to John Stuart about to-morrow”—Sir Horace groaned faintly at the realization that this hazardous exploit was definitely arranged—“and I've told him that you will give him a course of lessons in evasive replies.”
“Evasive replies?” repeated Sir Horace faintly.
“Yes. There'll be dozens of allusions to things Stuart won't know anything about, and he'll be asked dozens of questions about them. A man of your sound common sense must see that.”
Sir Horace's teeth chattered faintly, and the rich red of his complexion was dull.
“You won't be able to prompt him every time, and since he has hardly a ready wit and lacks your exquisite tact, his evasive replies ought to be cut and dried beforehand.”
“But how am I to think of the hundreds of evasive replies that may be necessary, highness? Think of the incalculable number of questions that may be asked!” cried Sir Horace in a panic.
“Oh, that's all right. The same evasive reply will answer a dozen different questions,” the prince reassured him. “I think you had better arrange them into classes. Why, consider. Nearly every unimportant question can be answered by saying: 'I really can't remember at the moment.' And it's so beautifully true; Stuart won't be able to remember at the moment, or any other moment, for that matter.”
“It is a good answer, highness,” acknowledged Sir Horace, in a tone of faint hope.
He sighed, and went upstairs to John Stuart's sitting room. He found him sternly learning by heart the more invigorating sentences in the leader of the Daily Wire.
They were soon at work. Sir Horace carefully ransacked his memory for questions he had heard members of the royal circle ask the prince. John Stuart wrote them down as he recalled them, and then they devised and discussed an answer to each.
Just before lunch, the prince himself came to learn what progress they were making, and congratulated them on their methods.
As he went out of the room, he paused to say:
“It's wonderful to think that I should have given my country a new type of professional man.”
“What type, highness?” asked Sir Horace.
“The professional prince,” said his highness, and left them.