“They admire your Highness’s good looks,” I ventured to remark. But she made a quick gesture of impatience, and declared that I only intended sarcasm.
“I suppose Miss West, that all the men turn to look at Her Highness?” I said. “Englishmen at the seaside during the summer are always impressionable, so they must be forgiven.”
“You are quite right, Mr Trewinnard. It is really something dreadful. Only to-day a young man—quite a respectable young fellow, who was probably a clerk in the City—followed us the whole length of the promenade to the West Pier and kept looking into her Highness’s face.”
“He was really a very nice-looking boy,” the girl declared mischievously. “If I’d been alone he would have spoken to me. And, oh, I’d have had such ripping fun.”
“No doubt you would,” I said. “But you know the rule. You are never upon any pretext to go out alone. Besides, you are always under the observation of a police-agent. You would scarcely care to do any love-making before him, would you?”
“Why not? Those persons are not men—they’re only machines,” she declared. “The Emperor told me that long ago.”
“Well, take my advice,” I urged with a laugh, “and don’t attempt it.”
“Oh, of course, Uncle Colin; you’re simply dreadful. You’re a perfect Saint Anthony. It’s too jolly bad,” she declared.
“Yes. Perhaps I might be a Saint Anthony where you are concerned. Still, you must not become a temptress,” I laughed, when at that moment, old Igor, the butler, entered to announce that dinner was served.
So we descended the stairs to the big dining-room, where the table at which she took the head was prettily decorated with Marshal Neil roses, and, a merry trio, we ate our meal amid much good-humoured banter and general laughter.