Everyone in civilization is infatuated with Percival of Rumandy...especially Percival of Rumandy. His fortune is vast, his appearance splendid, his ego colossal, and his devotees unconditionally enamored. His life is a series of adulations and comforts; and everyone-from his featherbrained parents to his puckishly clever cousin-seems to exist solely to serve him. When it is announced that the young prince is looking to choose his betrothed, every princess bubbles over with fanatical excitement. Every princess, except for one. If Percival had foreseen the havoc the oddly disinterested Frayda of Lordale would create, he would not have invited her to his ball in the first place. And if he had imagined the scope of the accidental adventure which would ensue, he would never have left his bed chamber.