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"Delightful," said the Prince. “I thank you for the tribute."

Boy! Was he an operator! But it turned out that he was looking at my flowers. By strange circumstance (Wendell, you are the most comprehen- sive fairy god-uncle a boy ever had!) - by some strange circumstance, I was wearing a spray of stephanottis not only the Prince's favorite flower but equally obvious, the national flower of wherever-the-hell he was from.

The music began again and there was some sort of signal for the Grand March to begin. The Prince looked sorrowful and said, "I have already promised this dance alas! I am devastated.” He even sounded sincere about it. "But I have purposefully kept an open programme (pronounced in the English fashion, so that you could almost hear the final silent let- ters) and should be honored if I might claim the privilege of your pres- ence then?" At least it sounded like a question.

"Yeah, sure,” I said in my best language-to-be-used-at-court.

The Prince walked away to join his partner for the Grand March a certain Betty Summers who was dressed in a white lace grown, look- ing very impressed and frightfully virginal (to which I have to add a triple "hoo-hah!" Betty was unofficial den mother to the local motorcycle club, but I digress.)

Wendell steered me into the formation at an appropriate moment and when the March broke up into individual couples I asked him the sixty- four dollar question. “You and the Prince are old buddies, huh?”

"We've met," he admitted, then changed the subject. “You know, you dance very well. I wasn't at all sure whether you would be able to do that or not."

"Thank you -- and don't change the subject. How do you know the Prince?"

"We met in Europe a year or so ago,” said Wendell casually. “That's all. He remembered me.”

"Who could forget you?" I asked innocently. “By the way, you also dance very well.”