“What do you think, Marian? It’s an elopement.”
Somerset smiled at them.
“Have you ever heard of the Princess Rabomirski? You have? Well, this is her daughter. Perhaps you know of the Count Bernheim, who is always about with the princess?”
“I trod on him last winter at Monte Carlo,” said Sir Henry Ransome.
“He survives,” said Somerset, “and has bought the Princess Ottilie from her mother. He’s not going to get her. She belongs to me. My name is Somerset, and I am foreign subeditor of the Daily Post.”
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Somerset,” said Sir Henry, with a smile. “And now, what can I do for you?”
“If you lend us some clothes, and take us to any port on earth save Illerville-sur-Mer, you will earn our eternal gratitude.”
Sir Henry looked doubtful. “We have made our arrangements for Illerville,” said he.
His wife broke in:
“If you don’t take these romantic beings straight to Southampton, I’ll never set my foot upon this yacht again.”