“Not very difficult to fall in love with her,” laughed the other. “She’s uncommonly good-looking.”
“Yes, but be careful that you don’t make a fool of yourself, and really allow yourself to be smitten,” he urged.
“But what is the nature of this fresh game?” Garrett inquired, eager to ascertain what was intended.
“Don’t worry about that, my dear fellow,” was his reply. “Only make love to the girl. Leave the rest to his Highness and myself.”
And so it came about that next day, with the pretty Winnie—for that was her name—seated at his side, Garrett drove the car along to Savona, chatting merrily with her, and discovering her to be most chic and charming. Her parents lived in London, she informed him, in Queen’s Gate. Her father was in Parliament, sitting for one of the Welsh boroughs.
The run was delightful, and was the commencement of a very pleasant friendship. He saw that his little friend was in no way averse to a violent flirtation, and indeed, he spent nearly the whole of the next morning with her in the garden.
The chauffeur had already disregarded the Parson’s advice, and had fallen desperately in love with her.
As they sat in the garden she told him that her mother was a Roumanian lady, of Bucharest, whose sister had married the enormously wealthy landowner, Prince Charles of Krajova. For the past two years she had lived in Paris, Vienna and Bucharest, with her aunt, and they were now at San Remo to spend the whole winter.
“But,” she added, with a wistful look, “I far prefer England. I was at school at Folkestone, and had a most jolly time there. I was so sorry to leave to come out here.”
“Then you know but little of London?”