"I didn't know you had a salon, Morris!" said Giles, his eyes twinkling.
"For the time being I call it such," replied the landlord grandly. "My daughter is a French scholar, Mr. Ware, and called the sitting-room by that name. Me and Mrs. Morris and Henrietta Morris wish to make their Highnesses feel at home. Allow me to conduct you, sir, to the salon of their Highnesses. The garkong is engaged with the dejune, along with the femmie de chambers, who also waits."
"You are quite a French scholar, Morris."
"Henrietta Morris, my daughter—or I should say, mon filly—has instructed me in the languidge, sir. This way to the salon, sir," and Morris marshalled the way with the air of a courtier of Louis XIV.
Giles entered the sitting-room, which was pretty and quaint but extremely unpretentious, bubbling over with laughter.
Olga came forward, and catching sight of his face, laughed also as she shook hands with him.
"I see you know the jest," she said.
"Morris informed me of it as soon as I entered his door. Why have you come down to this dull place, Princess?"
"Ah, no"—she made a pretty gesture of annoyance—"you must to-night call me Olga——"
"I should not think of taking such a liberty," said Giles quickly.