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Installed in the smoking room of the Orient Express ruefully I took stock of myself. Evidently I had done something that had roused the ire of Turkish officialdom. Well, I had made a slick getaway, but where I was going I did not know. That was the heaven of it—not to know where I was going. Grimstone and McHaggie would wonder at my flight.... Ah! If only I could have joined them—for they finally succeeded in getting a ringside seat at the biggest battle of the war.... I was running away from all that, and I rather despised myself. No dashing Dick Davis, no scintillating Stevens, I; yet I flattered myself that given a chance I could have done a decent job.

While I was brooding thus I was aware of a man regarding me with friendly interest. He had a Viking moustache and mastiff eyes. His nose was high-bridged, his hair iron grey. He was tall, thin, immaculately groomed, with the erect carriage of an old soldier. Presently he addressed me: “I am about due for a drink. Won’t you join me?” I smiled agreeably and we exchanged cards. His read: Sir Pelham Pelham, Bart.^[1]

Over a second whisky and soda he beamed on me paternally. “I feel, my boy, I ought to offer you a word of advice,” he said. “Your path is beset with danger which may be summed up in one word—women. Beware of their wiles. Now, I have a perfectly good wife who sits at home tatting while I gad about Europe, but I always carry a large photograph of her which I put in a conspicuous place in my room. ‘There,’ I say to my female friend of the moment, ‘is my one and only love.’ I regard it with reverence, and if things look compromising I kiss it. It fobs them off effectually. Young fellow, if you have not a wife get a portrait of a fictitious one. In many a delicate situation it may save you.”

I thanked him, and one of my first purchases on arriving at Bucharest was a beautiful photograph of a woman. Proudly I placed it on the mantelpiece of my room in the Athenee Palace. “There,” said I to the admiring chambermaid, “MY WIFE.” I regarded it with real affection, and in the end I came to be as much in love with the charming creature as if she had been my veritable spouse.

I did not want to go to a Palace Hotel but Sir Pelham insisted. “Mustn’t let our country down,” he said. I suspected he was taking me in hand as a raw colonial to be steered into the channel of sophistication. Although I snobbishly resented his title I felt flattered by his interest in me. A bit of a Casanova, I thought, for women responded readily to his charm.

He sported a monocle, and I decided that as soon as I found my feet I would wear a pane of glass in my eye. Ye Gods! What would my friends in the Yukon think? Well, that wild life was left behind me forever. Now I would play a new part in a new world.... There I was—always playing parts. Would I ever be just myself? Once I played my very self in a cinema drama and the Studio people were dissatisfied. They told me: “You are not the type.”

Bucharest thrilled me. I wrote bright articles of army officers in Merry Widow uniforms, of gargantuan coachmen driving their teams like the wind, of gay incongruities where east meets west and crude peasants gaze at the debonair boulevards. For the city prided itself on being a little Paris, and perhaps it was as far as virtue was concerned. This characteristic was brought home to me a few days after my arrival and I almost fell a victim to it.

One morning the concierge of the hotel said to me: “Would you like a girl to come to your room this evening?” Thinking he was joking I laughed. “Sure. Send one along!” “What would Monsieur prefer—fair or dark?” Still joking I said: “Oh, let’s have a nice bouncing brunette.” “Would Monsieur like a Parisian?” “Fine! I’ll be glad to improve my High School French with a conversation lesson.” So I left him, thinking no more about it.

That evening about nine I was working on an article when I heard a gentle tap on my door. “Come in!” I said rather testily, and a dark little woman entered. She was plump, dainty, dressed in black, with little make-up or jewellery—most respectable looking. “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” she said, gay as a geranium. Then, sitting familiarly on the edge of my bed, she lit a cigarette. I was taken aback. “You’ll find this armchair more comfortable,” I suggested.

She took it, making herself at home. She was about thirty, with dark eyes and pretty teeth. A charming professor! I was a little lonely in the evening and somehow I did not mind this interruption to my work. “Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking some light refreshment?” I asked politely. “Would you prefer coffee or a liqueur?” “But you are too amiable, Monsieur. A Créme de Menthe would be nice,” she agreed.

So I rang for the waiter who took the order. When we were comfortably seated over our drinks she looked at me archly. “I am Madame Yvette. You sent for me—well?” “Oh, I thought I might brush up my French a bit,” I said, “at, say, twenty-five francs a lesson.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Très bien, Monsieur. Shall we begin with the verb aimer? It is a very nice verb. You will like it.”

I did. When I began to conjugate the present tense she drew closer to me. When we got to nous aimons she sighed and paused. There was a languishing look in her eyes, and she softly patted my hand. Feeling strangely embarrassed I rose abruptly and went to the photo on the dressing table. “Rosalind—my wife,” I said. “Ah, comme nous nous aimons! I miss her so much.”

“I do not wonder,” said Yvette. “She is so beautiful. But I did not think you were a married man. You seem so care-free.”

“Nevertheless, I’ve been wedded for quite a number of years. Why, I have two little girls, the dearest of children.”

“You must miss them a lot.”

“I do, but I am a war correspondent and when duty calls I obey. I wish I could show you their pictures—such angels. I left their photos behind, but at least I have Rosalind,” I sighed and, taking down the picture, I kissed it.

Yvette was impressed. “I too have a little girl,” she told me. “Such a darling!” Then she went on to speak of her tiny Antoinette, and time passed quickly. Soon I saw that half an hour had gone, the limit of a lesson, so I thanked and paid her. I thought she rose rather reluctantly. Then I had a sudden idea. “By the way, I have a friend in number thirteen bis along the corridor. He spoke about taking French lessons, and I think he is now in his room. You might ask if he wants a professor. But please do not mention my name. You may call him Sir Pelham.”

She thanked me. “You have been so gentil, Monsieur. It is nice to meet a man who is comme il faut.” Then I saw her knock at number thirteen bis and presently enter. Soon after, the waiter appeared, but this time he carried a bottle of Heidsieck. Sir Pelham was no piker! I did not see him till next day at lunch when he made no mention of having had a visitor. However, his eyes had a faraway look and his usual vitality seemed lacking.

Next morning the concierge accosted me with a greasy grin. “Mistaire, and how you like your visitor?” “Fine,” I said. “I had a very good French lesson.” “You like another?” I tried to stall. “Well, I’m kinda fed up with brunettes. Have you any blondes on tap?” “Sure. I send you a blonde—a fraulein.” “Good,” I laughed. “Trot her along. I’ll be glad to brush up my German a bit.”

By evening I had forgotten my promised blonde and was at work as usual when again there was a timid tap on my door. With braids of golden hair and eyes of cornflower blue a maiden greeted me. Politely I bade her sit in the armchair while I offered her a cigarette. “Guten abend,” she said. “Ich bin Irma,” and I realised my German was even rustier than my French.

“I thought you might be able to give me a short lesson in your language,” I said; “but first can I offer you a little light refreshment?” “Bitte, meinherr,” she answered as demure as could be. “They have a very good Heidsieck here.” I thought of Dawson and the dancehall girls, and I said: “Nix on the wine. I reckon beer will hold you.” She took my reproof with good nature and the Pilsner with gusto. “Shall we begin with the verb lieben?” she suggested. So I repeated after her: “Ich liebe,” till we came to Wir lieben; when she paused.

In those days skirts were long and to show stocking was indiscreet. In the street even an ankle display made one turn to admire. But now I could scarcely help remarking that Irma was revealing a shapely limb. Perhaps she did not realise it, I thought, so I kept my eyes averted, and at the same time I decided she was even more appetising than Yvette. Again my moral semaphore signalled danger, so I rose and drew her attention to my photograph. “My wife—Beatrice,” I said tenderly. “I carry her picture with me wherever I go. It seems to bring her closer to me. Ah! How I long for the day when I will be with her again.”

I do not know if she understood all I said, but she seemed touched. German women have the family sense and are sentimental. As she gazed at the photo tears came into her eyes. “It is wonderful to be so faithful,” she said. “How I would love to have a husband like you. I would make him a lovely home.” I believed she would, too, for she was really a sweet girl. But pity is dangerous and I thought it was about time to part. “I have an article to get off by the mail,” I said, “so let us call it a lesson.” Accordingly I paid her and said goodbye. Then I had an afterthought. “In number thirteen bis there is a lonely man who craves a German professor. You might knock on his door and find out if he is free. But don’t say I sent you.”

Evidently Sir Pelham was free for I saw her disappear into his room and shortly afterwards a waiter mounted with another bottle of Heidsieck. As I returned to my work I had a feeling of virtue, but next day at lunch I again saw my friend. He looked absolutely shattered, and there and then I decided I would not try to pass off any more of my charming visitors on the poor chap.

But a few days later he got back at me. It was towards evening in the lavatory of the hotel when he said. “Look here, old man, I want to introduce you to a Princess.”

“Oh no, please,” I said with alarm. “I never in my life met with high nobility—and a Princess!”

“Tush, man! You must get over your anti-peerage prejudices. The Princess wants to meet you. She’s charming. Besides, she says she’s read your books.”

“Do I have to kiss her hand?”

“It’s customary, but it’s quite easy. Take it caressingly in both of yours and raise it heart high. Then bend your head gallantly and brush the back of it with your lips. Here, I’ll show you. Imagine me the Princess.”

We had a little rehearsal there in the lavatory. He extended his hand back up and showed me how to raise it to the right height and to bend with proper respect—all to the obvious entertainment of two Roumanians who no doubt took us for homosexuals. Then, having duly primed me, he said: “Now for the Princess. By the way, I’ve told her you’re a best seller—oodles of oof and so on, so be sure to play up.”

Worse and worse. I neither looked nor felt wealthy. Rather miserably I allowed myself to be conducted to the lounge where the lady awaited us. At sight of her my inferiority complex descended to a new low, for she was a majestic creature, over six feet high and built in proportion, with blond hair so natural it looked artificial. I fumbled with the hand she extended to be kissed and rather muffed it. However, she was condescendingly gracious, though I wondered whether I should address her as Your Highness or Your Grace. Sir Pelham should have posted me on that.

“Let us find a quiet corner and chat a bit,” she suggested. “You know, I’ve read your Rhymes of the Unicorn, and I’ve been dying to meet you. Come and tell me all about yourself.”

Ensconced in a nook I ordered cocktails. I need not have worried about conversation, for in excellent English she babbled with brook-like continuity. I do not believe she had read any of my books but she had seen some reviews and she made a bluff. Where the subject is myself I am a good listener so I primed her with another cocktail and let her prattle. Sir Pelham had discreetly disappeared, leaving the field clear.

I wondered if the Princess was the real article but she speedily dispelled my doubt by her allusions to the Court, where she had at one time served as a Lady-in-Waiting. Then she went on to talk of Paris, Rome and Vienna. There I felt out of my depth and floundered hopelessly, so I ordered more cocktails hoping she might get mildly mellow. But it was I who got lit up so, greatly daring, I asked her to dine with me. It’s going to set me back quite a bit of dough, I thought, but it will be Experience.

We had dinner in the hotel. It had the reputation of being expensive. It was, I thought, as I scanned the huge menu card. I had never dared to dine there, preferring humbler eateries where I could get value for my money. But the Princess was quite at home and called the head waiter Jules. He embarrassed me by standing with poised pencil and a smirk, so I said to her: “These French bills of fare get me all tangled up. Would you mind ordering?”

To tell the truth I understood them well enough but hoped, as she was doing the choosing, she would soft pedal on the price. Alas, my hope was speedily dashed, for she said: “Poor man, I expect you are simply ravenous. I must order a really nice dinner for you.... Let me see.... Suppose we begin with Chilled Cantaloup followed by Caviare. Jules, is the caviare Beluga? Good—then we’ll have some. ... Sole Normande? Yes, that will be nice. Then, shall we say Filet Mignon—or perhaps you prefer Poulet à la crème?”

“Okay,” I said gloomily. “Let’s have the chicken.” So she went on: “They have some asparagus Primeur. That will be nice, and then we might finish up with a Pêche Melba.... As to wine—let me see the list. Ah! They have some of that Chateau Yquem of ‘98. Or would you prefer a champagne? There is a Heidsieck here that is extra dry.” I saw that it was slightly cheaper so I said I would prefer it, then I sighed deeply as I thought of what the bill was going to be. Never in my life had I ordered such a repast. And never again, I thought, cursing Pelham Pelham.

However, my guest strove to be entertaining and I was not surprised so enormous a woman should have so capacious an appetite. That consoled me somewhat. She was not one of those who toyed with expensive food. It would have enraged me to see delicate dishes wantonly wasted. But the Princess seemed to be really hungry, so that one would have imagined she had gone without lunch. Despite my misgivings as to the ultimate bill we both did justice to a delicious dinner.

Over coffee the addition was brought, face down on a silver platter. I hated to turn it over but finally did so with an attempt at nonchalance. It was worse than I could have imagined—many times worse. I looked in my wallet while the Princess tactfully looked away. No, I had not enough bills to cover it and I did not like to ask them to charge it. What to do? Then I remembered I had a book of traveller’s cheques in my hip pocket, so I peeled off one for twenty dollars, signed it and asked the waiter to cash it at the office. Even then the proceeds were scarce enough to pay the bill, and I had to supplement them with the cash in my wallet. As I performed this operation the Princess seemed to watch me with surprise, while I imagined she looked with some contempt at my traveller’s cheques.

“You are a best seller, are you not?” she asked after a pensive moment. “You must make a lot of money.”

“Not so much. It’s my publishers who collar most of the dough. But I get two cents a word for my travel articles. Oh, I manage to pay my way all right.”

Somehow she did not seem happy about something, and I wondered if her conscience was reproaching her for letting me in for such a big bill, for presently she said: “Let’s go up to your room for a drink.”

Draped extensively over my one armchair I thought what a fine figure of a woman she was—every foot a Princess. As she stalked majestically out of the restaurant, while I trotted poodle-like at her heels, I had heard someone say: “Quelle carcasse!” There and then I decided to deprive myself of her, but it was not going to be so easy. There she sat chain-smoking, sipping a liqueur and making herself at home. She gabbled vivaciously saving me the effort of making conversation. When I looked surreptitiously at my wrist watch I saw it was nearly eleven. Still she made no attempt to move and I began to despair. She noticed my two valises in a corner and asked: “Where’s the rest of your baggage?” “I haven’t got any,” I answered. “I travel light—not even a dinner jacket. I’m afraid I’m rather a common person.”

“I like your frankness,” she said. “You don’t pretend to be more than you are. I am a Princess but I think I could be happy with a man like you.” With that she rose, threw away a half-smoked cigarette and squatted on the edge of the bed. Again I sensed the danger signal, but there on the dressing table was my stranglehold on respectability—my photo. Rapidly I collared it. “As it happens I belong to someone else,” I said. “My wife—God bless her!” Then I handed her the picture.

She stared at it. “Is this your wife?” she asked incredulously. “Yes,” I replied. “I’m quite an old married man. I miss her dreadfully. When I think of her waiting for me in our little cottage in the Maine woods I want to pack my bags and return by the next boat.”

Then the Princess laughed with ringing laughter. But suddenly she stopped. “Liar!” she hissed and, with one action, she tore the photo in two and flung it at my feet. “There,” she cried, “your precious wife! Do you know who that is? I should, for before I was divorced I was her bosom friend.... Fool! Impostor! That picture on the floor is the portrait of Her Royal Highness the Queen of Roumania.”

And with these words she gave me a stinging box on the ear and bounced from the room.

[1]	The repetition of his name he told me, he owed to a great-aunt who, when asked what he should be called, said: “Why, Pelham, of course. Where could you find a nobler name?” I asked him why he did not hyphenate it and stick another Pelham in front, but he gave me his “We are not amused” look.