dly have astonished
and confused them more than had this smacking of royalty. Had any one
but the little cousin of the Honourable John Ruffin smacked, they would
have been unable to refrain from an outburst of open disapproval.

To judge from the royal progress next morning, Pollyooly had indeed
done her work. The Baron von Habelschwert still perfumed the air as he
walked; but it was no longer obviously the air of a conquered country.
His moustache was less fierce, his stride less proprietary. Indeed he
might easily have been mistaken, by those to whom his name and
dignities were unknown, for the pear-shaped but inoffensive keeper of a
delicatessen shop. Prince Adalbert of Lippe-Schweidnitz was also
changed. He no longer roamed afield; he kept within six feet of his
protective equerry. He slouched less; and he had ceased to scowl
arrogantly on the children who no longer fled at his approach. He
regarded little English girls with a respectful, not to say timid, eye,
and edged closer to the baron as he passed one. To his mind the little
English girl was stored with the potentialities of a powder-magazine.

CHAPTER XIII

THE RAPPROCHEMENT

The noble-hearted humanitarian is ever of the opinion that violence,
physical violence, is degrading alike to those who employ it, and to
those on whom it is employed. In the main, doubtless, he may be right;
but there must be natures, exceptional natures, on which it does not
exercise this disastrous effect; and it is curious that there should be
two human beings in so small a place as Pyechurch at the same time of
this very nature.

There can be no doubt that Pollyooly had smacked Prince Adalbert of
Lippe-Schweidnitz with far greater violence than ever she had smacked
the abhorred Henry Wiggins for yelling "Ginger!" at her. There can be
no doubt that the prince had been so smacked. Yet Pollyooly's face
remained the face of an angel child; her devotion to the Lump and her
politeness to those with whom she came into contact showed no signs of
weakening; and no one could honestly assert that Prince Adalbert looked
a bit more like a pig than he had always done. If anything he had lost
something of his likeness to that nutritious animal.

At any rate there was no sign of degradation in his behaviour. He now
walked about Pyechurch beach as peacefully as you could wish: he
destroyed no castles; he kicked no children.

Even that fierce, stout, moustachioed and milita