'By God,' he said, 'what a beauty!'

His friends agreed with him; but they had no idea who she was.

And there she was in Lady Sefton's box in Covent Garden. What a goddess! She was different from everyone else. It was

not only due to the manner in which she wore her hair—and what glorious hair! It was all her own, not frizzed nor powdered, but dressed naturally with a thick curl hanging over one shoulder; and her bosom—full, white as marble, was almost matronly. Her complexion—and it was untouched by art—was clear and dazzling. And how delightful it was compared with the uniform red and white of rouge and white lead.

4 I never saw a face I liked better,' he said to his companions. 'Who is she? For God's sake tell me. I shall not have a moment's peace until I know.'

'She is a Mrs. Fitzherbert, Your Highness. A cousin or some distant relation of the Seftons. A widow ...'

'Adorable creature!'

'Your Highness wishes her to be presented?'

He was thoughtful. There was something about her manner which warned him. She was no Charlotte Fortescue—not even a Perdita. She was unique; and he knew from the start that he would have to go carefully.

'Leave this to me,' he said.

He had decided that for the duration of the opera he would content himself with looking. By God, he thought, there is plenty to look at.

She seemed unaware of him. That was what was so strange. Everyone else in the house was conscious of him—except Maria Fitzherbert.

'Maria Fitzherbert.' He repeated the name to himself. He wanted to know everything about Maria Fitzherbert. Just to look at her gave him infinite pleasure. No silly young girl this—a glorious goddess of a woman. No coy creature, no giggling companion. A mature woman, already a widow; a woman who was serious and in her lovely way mature. After the opera he would send someone to her box; he would say that the Prince of Wales desired to be allowed to visit her there. Impatiently he waited for the curtain to fall—and then it was too late. She had slipped away.

But it was not too late. He would follow her. He would take a chair as any ordinary gentleman might and he would follow her to her home.

How flattered she would be at this honour! She would invite him in for a delightful tete-a-tete; he would express his admiration; he would tell her that he knew something had happened to him tonight which had never happened before.

So to Park Street by chair in the most exciting manner.

But she had arrived there before him; and although she looked from the window and saw him standing in the street, she did not ask him in.

He was not seriously disturbed. Of course she was not that sort of woman. Nor, he told himself sternly, would he wish her to be; nor had he expected her to be.

He went home and all night he dreamed of Maria Fitz-herbert.

In the morning he said to himself: I have fallen in love at first sight with Maria Fitzherbert.

Drama at Carlton House

The Prince had always lived publicly; his affairs could not be hidden, so he made no attempt to hide them. He was passionately in love with Maria Fitzherbert and he could not have kept that secret had he wished to. He made it clear that if any of his friends wished to please him, they must invite Maria Fitzherbert to their houses and him at the same time; they must make sure that at their dinner tables he was seated next to her; he wanted to talk to Maria Fitzherbert, dance with her, be with her every moment that was possible, and he wished no one to attempt to prevent this.

His friends reminded each other of Perdita Robinson. So it had been in the early days of that affair; and that hadn't lasted very long. Of course Maria was different from Perdita, Maria was socially acceptable; she had been twice married and she was a poised society woman; she was not very rich, but on the other hand she was by no means poor. She had a house at Richmond and a house in Town; she did not entertain a great deal, but then she had no need to. Every fashionable hostess knew that unless she invited Maria Fitzherbert she would not have the Prince of Wales.

And Maria herself? She was not honoured; she was not delighted. She could not see how any good could come from the Prince's infatuation. Maria was sensible; she knew that she

go Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill

was no beauty but that she was a great deal more attractive than many who were; there was about her a dignity, an almost maternal air; she was not even very young, being twenty-eight; and she did not see how there could be any honourable relationship between herself and the Prince of Wales, and she was not the sort of woman to indulge in any other.

The Prince was very soon declaring his admiration.

'Never in my life have I met anyone who had moved me so deeply,' he told her. 'I could be perfectly happy in a world which contained no one else but you.'

She smiled serenely and said he was very charming to her, and she knew that she owed her welcome into society to him.

He tried to explain. He wanted her to owe everything to him; he wanted her to know that it was his greatest desire to serve her ... not only now, but for the rest of his life.

She smiled her placid smile, which really meant that she believed he had made similar declarations many times before; and although she found him charming and it was pleasant to know that he enjoyed making them to her, she did not take them at all seriously.

'I don't doubt you have heard stories of my adventures with women,' he said ruefully.

'The affairs of a Prince of Wales must always attract interest, of course.'

'But you don't understand, Maria ... Oh what a beautiful name. Everything about you is perfect. What I feel now is something entirely new. I realize now that I was never seriously involved with anyone before.'

But she did not believe him. She was gracious and charming, completely unruffled; she liked him; she thought him amusing, charming, a delightful companion; but she refused to consider him as a lover. She had been twice most honourably married, and she did not consider it an honour to be any man's mistress—even that of a Prince of Wales.

He was frustrated. He did what he always did in moments of stress. He took to his pen. He wrote to Maria, pouring out his feelings for her. She did not always answer the letters, but when she did she did so in the manner of a friend and he could not break through the barrier she had set up.

He was interested in nothing. In vain did his friends try to tempt him. The Duchess of Cumberland would give an entertainment to outshine any she had ever given before. He was not interested. Georgiana would invite all the most interesting people in London—all those who had most delighted him. Was that going to make Maria consider him seriously? Major Hanger would think up some delicious practical jokes. Maria thought them childish, said the Prince; and so they were. He was finished with such amusements.

'Mrs. Fitzherbcrt is a Tory and a Catholic,' Fox reminded him.

'I'd be a Tory and a Catholic if that would give me any headway with her,' was the Prince's retort.

That was an alarming statement. 'For God's sake,' said Fox to Sheridan, 'let the woman give in before real damage is done.'

The Prince could not eat; he lost his good humour; he wanted Maria, but Maria, while ready to be his friend, would not become his mistress.

Lady Sefton called on Maria. Maria received her in the drawing room at Park Street and Isabella Sefton studied her as people were studying Maria now, which made her smile.

'I know what you're thinking,' said Maria. 'It's what everyone thinks when they look at me nowadays. What does he see in her?'