“Gracious!” I burst out. “Are you going to do it? Or are you going to paint clothes on us?” And at the same instant Nick demanded: “Who’s your friend?”
Zephine evidently considered the latter question more worthy of a reply.
“He’s the stable boy of the hotel,” she said, “and he’s been helping me telephone. I’ve engaged rooms for us all in Bergen. And the captain of the steamer says we can go on board any time we like. They’re making coffee for us there. Keep your clothes, for I’ve saved mine and can lend some to this lady.” As a matter of fact, there they were, under her painting kit! “But first turn your backs and hold this behind you, so that we can have a dressing room.” And she handed us a green silk petticoat.
It is not for me to record what took place behind that petticoat. I can only testify that it was upon a much more serene Highness we were at last permitted to turn—attired in Zephine’s shiny grey skirt of super-state, with other necessary adjuncts, and abounding in the most complicated expressions of gratitude.
“Kolossal!” let out the Prince. “But I—!” he added mournfully, beating his brilliant breast.
“You can wrap this around your shoulders,” said Zephine comfortingly, presenting him with the green silk petticoat. “And you might give him something, Herb,” she added. “You seem to have more than you need.”
“Ah!” archly exclaimed Her Serene Highness. “Then he is the one! I asked myself which of these gentlemen was the gracious lady’s husband.”
The violence of my efforts to maintain a decorum suitable to the occasion must have made me turn a colour not far from that of the princely pyjamas. I hardly dared meet the eyes of my accomplices. Yet when I did so it was to discover in Zephine not quite the amused self-possession I expected.
As for Nick, he stared a little, he drew himself up in his Persian dressing gown, he did his best to click a pair of bare heels, he made Their Serene Highnesses of Waldeck-Hohenkugel such a bow as they knew how to appreciate, and he said:
“Pardon, Highness, but you are mistaken.” Then he turned, somewhat less ceremoniously, to me. “Look here,” he threw out, in a way that made me stare in turn. “I don’t know how much the mantua-makers of Bergen are up to, but Zephine’ll have to get some new clothes, like the rest of us. She’s given away most of her own. And I think it’s about time she tried a new system. Anyhow, the first thing she’s going to have is one non-reversible garment of white bombazine, garnished with mosquito netting and whatever in the flora of the country may answer to orange blossoms. Do you get me?”