grown-ups had recognized
the damning fact. Nikky was not, strictly speaking a grown-up.

The sun came through the deep embrasures of the window and set Prince
Ferdinand William Otto's feet to wriggling. It penetrated the gloomy
fastnesses of the old room and showed its dingy furniture, its great
desk, its dark velvet portieres, and the old cabinet in which the
Crown Prince kept his toys on the top shelf. He had arranged them there
himself, the ones he was fondest of in the front row, so he could look
up and see them; a drum which he still dearly loved, but which made
Miss Braithwaite's headache; a locomotive with a broken spring; a
steam-engine which Hedwig had given him, but which the King considered
dangerous, and which had never, therefore, had its baptism of fire; and
a dilapidated and lop-eared cloth dog.

He was exceedingly fond of the dog. For quite a long time he had taken
it to bed with him at night, and put its head on his pillow. It was the
most comforting thing, when the lights were all out. Until he was seven
he had been allowed a bit of glimmer, a tiny wick floating in a silver
dish of lard-oil, for a night-light. But after his eighth birthday that
had been done away with, Miss Braithwaite considering it babyish.

The sun shone in on the substantial but cheerless room; on the picture
of the Duchess Hedwig, untouched by tragedy or grief; on the heavy,
paneled old doors through which, once on a time, Prince Hubert had made
his joyous exits into a world that had so early cast him out; on his
swords, crossed over the fireplace; his light rapier, his heavy cavalry
saber; on the bright head of his little son, around whom already so many
plots and counterplots were centering.

The Crown Prince Ferdinand William Otto found the sun unsettling.
Besides, he hated verbs. Nouns were different. One could do something
with nouns, although even they had a way of having genders. Into
his head popped a recollection of a delightful pastime of the day
before--nothing more nor less than flipping paper wads at the guard on
the Scenic Railway as the car went past him.

Prince Ferdinand William Otto tore off the corner of a piece of paper,
chewed it deliberately, rounded and hardened it with his royal fingers,
and aimed it at M. Puaux. It struck him in the eye.

Instantly things happened. M. Puaux yelled, and clapped a hand to his
eye. Miss Braithwaite rose. His Royal Highness wrote a rather shaky
French verb, with the wron