“I know I told you some awful stories—about my poverty, and all that. But you will forgive me—won’t you?” she implored.
“Of course,” replied the diplomat, charmed by her sweetness and frankness of manner. “It was necessary in order to preserve your incognita. I realise now the reason why your pseudo-uncle regarded me with such a decided antipathy. First he feared lest we might fall in love with each other—”
“And there was no fear of that, was there?” she laughed, interrupting.
“I don’t know exactly,” he answered half-dubiously. “You flirted with me outrageously sometimes.”
“Ah, I know I did! It was, I admit, too bad of me, Mr Waldron. But I do hope even now you’ve found me out in all those white lies that it will make no difference to our friendship.”
“Why, not in the least,” he declared. “I am greatly honoured by Your Royal Highness’s friendship.”
“No, no,” she cried impatiently, “not Highness to you, Mr Waldron. Lola—still Lola, please.”
“Very well,” laughed the man. “But surely that will sound too familiar from one in my station?”
“When we are alone, I mean. Of course in Society, or at Court I may be Her Royal Highness the Principessa Luisa Anna Romana Elisabetta Marie Giovanna di Savoia—and half a dozen other names and titles if you like. They really don’t trouble me,” and she carelessly cast her well-worn sealskin muff upon the couch near her.
“Ah,” he sighed, “I fear you are a sad breaker of the conventionalities. Before I knew that you were my little friend of the Nile I had heard several stories of your various little escapades.”