important, and hardly ever regret it. I 'm sure we should suit. You 've got no nonsense about you."
"Oh yes I have, lots!" I broke in. "That's all I have left—that, and my sense of humour. But seriously, you 're very kind—to take me on faith like this—especially when you began by thinking me mysterious. I 'd accept thankfully, only—I 'm engaged already."
"To be married, I suppose you mean?"
"Thank heaven, no! To a Princess."
"Dear me, one would think you were a man hater!"
"So I am, a one-man hater. What Simpkins is to you, that man is to me. And that 's why I 'm on my way to Cannes to be the companion of the Princess Boriskoff, who 's said to be rather deaf and very quick-tempered, as well as elderly and a great invalid. She sheds her paid companions as a tree sheds its leaves in winter. I hear that Europe is strewn with them."
"Nice prospect for you!"
"Is n't it? But beggars must n't be choosers."
"You don't look much like a beggar."
"Because I can make my own dresses and hats—and nightgowns."
"Well, if your Princess sheds you, let me know, and you may live yet to deliver me from Simpkins. I feel you'd be equal to it! My address is—but I'll give you a card." And, burrowing under her pillow, she unearthed a fat handbag from which, after some fumbling, she presented me with a visiting-card, enamelled in an old-fashioned way. I read: "Miss Paget, 34a Eaton Square. Broomlands House, Surrey."
"Now you 're not to lose that," she impressed upon
