January.
I don’t know where we are, somewhere on the Mediterranean on our way back from Egypt. It is the middle of the night, but I must write down what has happened, for it’s too exciting! Well! There’s a Russian aboard, and he is a Prince—Aunt discovered that, trust her, she’s absolutely set on my marrying a title. Anyhow we are all at the same table and last night he and I walked on deck together. There was a full moon, by the way, and really there aren’t any other nice young men on board, except Checkers, and brothers don’t count, so of course the Prince and I started a little flirtation. He’s as clever as he can be—very cosmopolitan, rather a mysterious person, and big, with a blonde moustache.
[1] Written at the age of twenty. I. A.
But when I went back to my cabin and put on my rainbow negligée, the one with the wing sleeves, and started over to Aunt’s cabin to bid her goodnight,—why, what do you suppose? I went into the wrong stateroom! Honestly, I was sure hers was 26, but it wasn’t, and the minute I entered I saw I had made a mistake, for there stood the Russian, still dressed and staring out of the porthole. Of course he turned and looked at me; I tried to explain but stuttered in my excitement. He proved to be nice about it, but rather silly, I thought.
The worst of it was, though, that the boat lurched and swung the door shut, and then, of all things, the knob fell off! Really, I was so embarrassed and so furious with myself for being embarrassed, when it was such a chance to show what a woman of the world I was, that my hand shook and I could hardly get the knob into place again. But I did, with the Prince’s help—only I must admit his help didn’t amount to much—however he opened the door and bowed me out as if I were a great lady.
On the whole he really behaved very well, but foreigners are so different from Americans. I’m rather ashamed, so I’m going to dodge him after this if I can.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Steamship Cleopatra,