“She gave me a cheque for fifty pounds for my Children’s Holiday Fund last week,” he said. “She’s promised to come down and go round my parish one day, soon.” His Highness smiled knowingly.
“Is her place far from Whitby?” he inquired, between whiffs of his cigarette.
“About four miles, on the high road just past a place called Swarthoe Cross. Grosmount station, on the Pickering line is nearest.”
“The old girl, as far as I’ve been able to observe, is a purse-proud old crow,” his Highness remarked.
“Rather. Likes her name to figure in subscription lists. The old man built and endowed some almshouses in Whitby, and offered twenty thousand to his Party for a knighthood, but was refused. It’s a sore point, for she badly wanted to be Lady Edmondson.”
“How long since the dear one departed?”
“Two years.”
“And she’s looking for a second, I suppose?”
“That’s my belief.”
“I wonder if she’d be attracted by the title of princess?” he laughed.