Except myself and his mother, he had never known a real friend.
To Max the people of the world were of two conditions: a very small class to whom he must kneel, and a very large number who must kneel to him.

Even his mother addressed him publicly as "My Lord Count." On rare occasions, in the deep privacy of her closet, mother-love would get the better of her and break through the crust of ceremony.

Then she indulged herself and him in the ravishing, though doubtful, luxury of calling him "Little Max." No one but I, and perhaps at rare intervals Duke Frederick, ever witnessed this lapse from dignity on the part of Her Grace, and we, of course, would not expose her weakness to the world.
This love-name clung to Max, and "Little Max," though somewhat incongruous, was pretty when applied to a strapping fellow six feet two and large of limb in proportion.
When the boy approached manhood, I grew troubled lest this strait-jacket existence in Styria should dwarf him mentally and morally.

So I began to stir cautiously in the matter of sending him abroad into the world.

My first advances met with a rebuff.
"It is not to be thought of," said the duke.
"Send the count out to the rude world to associate with underlings?
Never!" cried the duchess, horrified and alarmed.
I had expected this, and I was not daunted.