And I frankly told her so.
“My dear Uncle Colin, it would have been all the same,” she declared airily. “You shouldn’t have lectured me. I assure you I have had enough of that at home. Ever since I came back from England everybody seems to have conspired to tell me that I’m the most terrible girl in Russia. Father holds up his hands; why, I really don’t know.”
“Because you are so extremely unconventional,” I said. “A girl of the people can act just as she likes; but you are a Grand Duchess—and you can’t.”
“Bother my birth. That’s my misfortune. I wish I were a shopgirl, or a typist, or something. Then I should be free!” she exclaimed impatiently. “As it is, I can’t utter a word or move a little finger without the whole of Russia lifting up their hands in pious horror. I tell you, Uncle Colin,” she added, her fine, big, dark eyes fixed upon me, “I’m sick of it all. It is simply unbearable. Ah! how I wish I were back at dear old Southdene College. I hate Russia and all her works!”
“Hush!” I cried again. “You really must not say that. Remember your position—the niece of His Majesty.”
“I repeat it!” she cried in desperation, her well-formed little mouth set firmly. “And I don’t care who hears me—even if it’s Uncle Alexander himself!”