When Blakely and Dad, and the other men joined us, I was so happy I could have kicked both my slippers to the ceiling. I might have disgraced myself doing it, too, if the third son of the English baronet hadn't come up just then to felicitate me. He would have done it charmingly if he hadn't felt constrained to add that Americans always say "dook" instead of "duke," that nobody present seemed to realize the proper way to address a nephew of the Czar was to call him Monseigneur, that the Olympic games in London had been conducted admirably, arid that he didn't believe in marriage, anyway.
But the sweetest thing to me of all that wonderful evening was to see the love and gratitude in Blakely's eyes when he looked at his mother; for a man who doesn't love his mother misses much, and I love Blakely so tenderly, I couldn't bear to have him miss the last then that makes for contentment and happiness.
Chapter Eleven
When I awoke, late next morning, it was to find myself, if not famous, at least conspicuous; in the Los Angeles newspaper Valentine brought me with my coffee, much space was devoted to the ducal dinner.
GRAND DUKE SMASHES CHAMPAGNE GLASSES
Miss Middleton Toasted in Truly Royal Fashion by Distinguished Nephew of Russia's Reigning Czar.
Brilliant Dinner Reaches Climax in Shower of Costly Crystal While Hostess Smiles Approval.
Disgusting as it was, I couldn't help laughing at the pen-and-ink sketch which accompanied it—a sketch of the duke, with crowned head, and breast covered with decorations, smiling fatuously from within a rakish border of broken champagne glasses.
But there was worse to come. On another page under the heading: