not touch those," she was quickly told, "they are mine; and I may
call you Jane, but you must not call me Victoria." The Princess's most
constant playmate was Victoire, the daughter of Sir John Conroy, the
Duchess's major-domo. The two girls were very fond of one another; they
would walk hand in hand together in Kensington Gardens. But little Drina
was perfectly aware for which of them it was that they were followed, at
a respectful distance, by a gigantic scarlet flunkey.

Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Lehzen, and she loved her
dear Feodora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Spath.
And her dear Mamma, of course, she loved her too; it was her duty; and
yet--she could not tell why it was--she was always happier when she was
staying with her Uncle Leopold at Claremont. There old Mrs. Louis, who,
years ago, had waited on her Cousin Charlotte, petted her to her heart's
content; and her uncle himself was wonderfully kind to her, talking to
her seriously and gently, almost as if she were a grown-up person. She
and Feodora invariably wept when the too-short visit was over, and they
were obliged to return to the dutiful monotony, and the affectionate
supervision of Kensington. But sometimes when her mother had to stay at
home, she was allowed to go out driving all alone with her dear Feodora
and her dear Lehzen, and she could talk and look as she liked, and it
was very delightful.

The visits to Claremont were frequent enough; but one day, on a special
occasion, she paid one of a rarer and more exciting kind. When she was
seven years old, she and her mother and sister were asked by the King
to go down to Windsor. George IV, who had transferred his fraternal
ill-temper to his sister-in-law and her family, had at last grown tired
of sulking, and decided to be agreeable. The old rip, bewigged and
gouty, ornate and enormous, with his jewelled mistress by his side and