136 A BOOK-LOVER'S HOLIDAYS 



shrinking. Three travellers, evidently English- 

 men, were at the landing. One of them came 

 up to me and introduced himself, saying: "You 

 won't remember me; when I last saw you, you 

 were romping with little Prince Sigurd, in 

 Buckingham Palace at the time of the King's 

 funeral; I was in attendance on (naming an 

 august lady); my name is Herschel, Lord Her- 

 schel." I recalled the incident at once. On 

 returning from my African trip I had passed 

 through western Europe, and had been most 

 courteously received. In one palace the son 

 and heir — whom I have called Sigurd, which 

 was not his name — was a dear little fellow, very 

 manly and also very friendly; and he reminded 

 me so of my own children when they were small 

 that I was unable to resist the temptation of 

 romping with him, just as I had romped with 

 them. A month later, when as special ambas- 

 sador I was attending King Edward's funeral, 

 I called at Buckingham Palace to pay my re- 

 spects, and was taken in to see the august lady 

 above alluded to. The visit lasted nearly an 

 hour, and toward the end I heard little squeaks 

 and sounds in the hall outside, for which I 

 could not account. Finally I was dismissed, and, 

 on opening the door, there was little Sigurd, 

 with his nurse, waiting for me. He had heard 



