Back in the Saddle

“But Trish,” said Francois Tremayne, “Why do you stare at me so? Have I made the faux pas?”

“I am so sorry,” Trish said, flustered. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that I – I mean, you, uh ...

“Oh let me start again,” she said, blushing furiously, but getting herself under control. “When I was a little girl,” she said carefully, “I used to imagine a brave handsome prince was going to come on his white horse and take me away. To meet the crowned heads of Europe.”

He nodded gravely, his eyes on her.

“And the name I made up for this brave prince was ... Francois Tremayne!” He laughed, a deep, rich, bass laugh, unassuming and delighted.

“No! Is it even so? Mon cher, that is the story superb. I love it. But I am afraid I make a very poor prince. And I know none of the crowned heads. But to meet you and hear this story I feel now a king.”