“Aw—the war’s over! Aw—come on, be a good little feller—I mean sweetheart. Stick along.”
“But your princess!”
“The Sahara is a wide-spot and there ain’t many princesses got the fare to Reno these days, Verbeenagaborden. And, besides, didn’t you draw up a fine Saharatic marriage contract? In lots of desert love affairs in the novels they jolly well—how do you like my English so swell spoken to please you?—don’t never get so far as a scrap of paper between them. Nothing between them—just nothing but——”
Verbeena looked at him demurely.
“True for you, Goldielocks,” said she, adding with a courage that was easily tantamount to bravery, “I’d rather be respectable than a best seller any day!
“But—who in the world are these people around you? Spaghetti—who is he?”
“The only ferdombt Italian who stuck when the treaty busted. Popper was going to make him King of Rome or something good like that only for what happened.”
“And Hulda?”
“Sh—the Grand Duchess Hautenglautenschlitzenburg! She’s hiding!”
“From what?”