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."
"Running away from the Man?"
"Yes; also from my relatives who're sure it's my duty to be _his_
companion.
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