about a particularly wolfish wolf, I came in momentary contact with a man who was pre-eminently a man amongst all men capable of feeling deeply, of believing steadily, of loving ardently.

I remember to this day the grasp of Prince Roman’s bony, wrinkled hand closing on my small, inky paw, and my uncle’s half-serious, half-amused way of looking down at his trespassing nephew.

They moved on and forgot that little boy. But I did not move; I gazed after them, not so much disappointed as disconcerted by this prince, so utterly unlike a prince in a fairy tale. They moved very slowly across the room. Before reaching the other door the prince stopped; and I heard him—I seem to hear him now—saying: ‘I wish you would write to Vienna about filling up that post. He’s a most deserving fellow—and a word from you would be decisive with my daughter.’

My uncle’s face turned to him expressed genuine wonder. It said as plainly as any speech could say: What better recommendation than a father’s can be needed? The prince was quick at reading expressions. Again he spoke with the toneless accent of a man who has not heard his own voice for years, for whom the soundless world is like an abode of silent shades. And to this day I remember the very words.

‘I ask you to write, because, you see, my daughter and my son-in-law don’t believe me to be a good judge of men. They think that I let myself be guided too much by sentiment.’