“Princess of Jerusalem, I should imagine,” I answered. “Oh, I see! You've skipped a line, Hephzy. Bergenstein belongs to another person. The Princess's name is Berkovitchky. Russian or Polish, perhaps.”
“I don't care if she's Chinese; I mean to see her. I never expected to look at a live Princess in MY life.”
We stopped in the hall at the entrance to the dining-saloon to examine the table chart. Hephzibah made careful notes of the tables at which the knights and the lord and the Princess were seated and their locations. At lunch she consulted the notes.
“The lord sits right behind us at that little table there,” she said, excitedly. “That table for two is marked 'Lord and Lady Erkskine.' Now we must watch when they come in.”
A few minutes later a gray-haired little man, accompanied by a middle-aged woman entered the saloon and were seated at the small table by an obsequious steward. Hephzy gasped.
“Why—why, Hosy!” she exclaimed. “That isn't the lord, is it? THAT?”
“I suppose it must be,” I answered. When our own Steward came I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, with unction. “Yes, sir, that is Lord and Lady Erkskine, sir, thank you, sir.”
Hephzy stared at Lord and Lady Erkskine. I gave our luncheon order, and the steward departed. Then her indignant disgust and disappointment burst forth.
“Well! well!” she exclaimed. “And that is a real live lord! That is! Why, Hosy, he's the livin' image of Asaph Tidditt back in Bayport. If Ase could afford clothes like that he might be his twin brother. Well! I guess that's enough. I don't want to see that Princess any more. Just as like as not she'd look like Susanna Wixon.”