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“I want to come,” he said. “I’ll hurry up, Mother. I’ll——”

“We’re late now.” The princess turned as her husband appeared in the door. “Now Val says he wants to come.”

“He can’t,” said Prince Paul shortly. “He’s too outrageously late.”

Val nodded. Russian aristocrats, however indulgent about themselves, were always admirably Spartan with their children. There were no arguments.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Prince Paul grunted. The footman, in red-and-silver livery, opened the limousine door. But the grunt decided the matter for Val, because Princess Rostoff at that day and hour had certain grievances against her husband which gave her command of the domestic situation.

“On second thought you’d better come, Val,” she announced coolly. “It’s too late now, but come after dinner. The yacht is either the Minnehaha or the Privateer.” She got into the limousine. “The one to come to will be the gayer one, I suppose—the Jacksons’ yacht——”

“Find got sense,” muttered the Prince cryptically, conveying that Val would find it if he had any sense. “Have my man take a look at you ’fore you start. Wear tie of mine ’stead of that outrageous string you affected in Vienna. Grow up. High time.”