"Oh, dear, yes; with very stiff mustaches, turned up high at the corners, and pink cheeks, and a very sharp, nobby-looking hat, with a light-colored grey coat, and light gloves. You must know the prince."
"Upon my word, I never heard of him, my dear. What did the prince do?"
"He was tooling his own drag, and he had a lady with him on the box. I never saw anything more tasty than her dress,—dark red silk, with little fluffy fur ornaments all over it. I wonder who she was?"
"Mrs. Chitakov, probably," said the attorney.
"I don't think the prince is a married man," said Sophy.
"They never are, for the most part," said Amelia; "and she wouldn't be Mrs. Chitakov, Uncle John."
"Wouldn't she, now? What would she be? Can either of you tell me what the wife of a Prince of Chitakov would call herself?"
"Princess of Chitakov, of course," said Sophy. "It's the Princess of Wales."
"But it isn't the Princess of Christian, nor yet the Princess of Teck, nor the Princess of England. I don't see why the lady shouldn't be Mrs. Chitakov, if there is such a lady."
"Papa, don't bamboozle her," said his daughter.