"Never mind. I know all! About the Dolores woman, her brand new diamonds, the pirouettes she did on the table and the many lace petticoats she wore."
"My word, I didn't count them," vowed his Royal Highness.
"Neither would I advise you to do so," I warned sternly, though as a matter of fact I was near exploding with laughter. "Now make a clean breast of it."
"I swear I was only the elephant. The King himself would excuse me under the circumstances," whimpered my husband.
"You big booby," I interposed, "can't you see that I'm not angry? I blab about you to the King? What do you take me for? I am your pal, now and always, in affairs liable to prove inartistic to the King's, or Prince George's, stomach. To begin with, what has an elephant to do with supping with a dancing girl?"
Frederick Augustus explained that the name of the pachyderm applies to a third party, who attends a couple out for a lark until he proves a crowd. Our cousin, Grand-duke Kyril of Russia, visiting Dresden incognito, had prevailed on Frederick Augustus's good nature to serve him and the Dolores.
"The Dolores is prettier than I?" I inquired.
"Not at all. She has a black mole under her left bosom."
"You saw that?"
"How could I help it? Russian Grand-dukes never allow a girl to wear corsets at supper. Kyril says it interferes with digestion."