"Be very careful of this," says I to a young man who stood at the post-office window, "and see that it goes straight to his Royal Highness; I want it to reach him the first thing in the morning on Valentine's Day."
He looked at the address, and muttered to himself:
"For His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of all the Russias: care of Philip Sheridan and a wild Indian whose name a refined lady could not bring herself to pronounce; Buffalo Plains, America."
"My dear madame," says he, all at once, "this is no address at all; it would never reach the Grand Duke."
I caught my breath.
"Not reach him?" says I.
"No," says he; "the Grand Duke has gone beyond the reach of the mails."
"Goodness gracious!" says I; "but no matter about that, if he hasn't got out of the reach of the females."
"But he has."
My heart sank in my bosom like a soggy apple-dumpling.