The Motor Maid

								

"If I look rich my appearance must be more distinguished than I
supposed--and it's also very deceiving," said I.
"You're rich enough to travel for pleasure in wagon-lits, and have
silver-fitted bags."
"I'm not travelling for pleasure. You exaggerate my bags and my
wagon-lits, for I've only one of each; and both were given me by a
friend who was at the Convent with me."
"The Convent! Good heavens! are you an escaping nun?"
I laughed. "I went to school at a Convent. That was when I thought I
was going to be rich--at least, rich enough to be like other girls.
And if I am 'escaping' from something, it isn't from the arms of
religion."
"If you're not rich, and aren't going to relatives, why not take an
engagement with me? Come, I'm in earnest. I always make up my mind
suddenly, if it's anything 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!"
"Isn't it? But beggars mustn'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 me. "Write if you're
scattered over Europe by this Russian (I never did believe much in
Princesses, excepting, of course, our own dear Royalties), or if you
ever come to England. Even if it's years from now, I assure you Beau and
I won't have forgotten you. As for your address--"
"I haven't any," I said. "At present I'm depending on the Princess for
one. She's at the Hotel Majestic Palace, Cannes; but from what my friend
Pam--the Comtesse de Nesle--says, I fancy she doesn't stop long in any
town. It was the Comtesse de Nesle who got me the place. She's the only
one who knows where I'm going, because--after a fashion, I'm running
away to be the Princess's companion."