Her Imperial Highness was a young lady of very keen intelligence. After several governesses at home, she had been sent to Paris, and afterwards to a college at Eastbourne—where she was known as Miss Natalia Gottorp, the latter being one of the family names of the Imperial Romanoffs—and there she had completed her education. From her childhood she had always had an English governess, Miss West, consequently, with a Russian’s adaptability, she spoke English almost without a trace of accent. Though so full of fun and frolic, and so ready to carry on a violent flirtation, yet she was, on the other hand, very thoughtful and level-headed, with a keen sense of humour, and a nature extremely sympathetic with any person in distress, no matter whom they might be. Hers was a bright, pleasant nature, a smiling face, and ever-twinkling eye full of mischief and merriment.
“Well,” I said, looking into her face, “I’ve been thinking about you a good deal since you’ve been away—and wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“Whether, as you have no love for Russia, you might not like to go back to England?” I said slowly.
“To England!” she cried in delight. “Ah! If I only could! I love England, and especially Eastbourne, with the sea and the promenade, the golf, and the concerts at the Devonshire Park, and all that. Ah! I only wish I could go.”
“But if you went you’d fall in love with some young fellow, and then we should have another scandal at Court,” I said.
“I wouldn’t. Believe me, I wouldn’t, really, Uncle Colin,” she pleaded, looking up into my face with almost childish simplicity.
I shook my head dubiously.
“All I’ve told you is the real truth,” she assured me. “I’ve only amused myself. Every girl likes men to make love to her. Why should I be so bitterly condemned?”
“Because you are not a commoner.”