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Ten minutes later Bessie had a voluptuous suite guaranteed to be just above that of Queen Sidonie.

Someone had informed Bessie Tait that English people dined as late as eight in the evening. It scarcely seemed possible. But, “I’ll try anything once,” said Bessie.

At eight, she sat in a corner of the Renaissance Salon of the Hotel Picardie, in a striking white tulle frock with gold sequins, and with her was Master Tait, in full evening clothes.

She noticed that the other guests stared at him considerably.

“They know who we are!” she rejoiced, as she picked up the menu. It was in French, but if the supercilious captain of waiters expected the American lady not to understand French, he was mistaken, for in eighteen lessons at Poppy Peaks she had learned not only the vocabulary of food but also the French for “I should like to take a horseback ride on a horse tomorrow,” “How much costs a hat of this fashion?” and “Where obtains one the tickets of the first class for Holland?”

She said rapidly to the captain, “Donnyma deh pottage German one order crevettes and one wheats, deh rosbifs, pom de terres, and some poissons—no, pois—and deh fois ice cream and hustle it will you, please?”

“Perfaitment!” said the French captain and, continuing in his delightful native tongue, he commanded a waiter, “Jetz mach’ schnell, du, Otto!”

At nine, Bessie commanded again the presence of the assistant manager who had found her suite.

“I want you,” she suggested, “to get me some good English servants. First I want a valet for my son. I want Terry should have a high-class English valet—and I don’t want none that talks bad English, neither. ”

“Certainly, madame. ”

“And I want a maid that can fix my hair. ”

“Certainly, madame. ”

“And then I want a refined lady secretary. ”

“Refined?”

“Yes, she’s gotta be refined. I never could stand dames that aren’t refined. ”

“I know a young lady, madame, Miss Tingle, the daughter of a most worthy Low Church clergyman, and formerly secretary to Lady Frisbie. ”

“Lady Frisbie? Oh, in the nobility?”

“Why—uh—practically. Her husband, Sir Edward Frisbie, was a linen draper, and mayor of Bournemouth. Oh, yes, you’ll find Miss Tingle most refined. ”

“Grand! That’s what I’m always telling these roughnecks in Hollywood—like when they wanted Terry to play a comic part, bell boy in a harem—‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘Terry’s got a refined father and mother, and he’ll be refined himself or I’ll bust his head!’ Well, shoot in your valet and maid and Miss Tingle—have ’em here by noon. ”

The assistant manager promised. After his going, Bessie received Mr. Turner and Mr. Clapham of the Anglo–Jupiter Corporation.

“We have decided—” said Mr. Clapham gently.

“Yes, we have quite decided,” said Mr. Turner with firmness.

“—that it would be indiscreet for you to seek an audience with King Maximilian at all. ”

“Oh, you have!” murmured Bessie. “It’s nice to have things decided for you. ”

“Yes, we hoped you would be pleased. We have, in fact, gone into the matter most thoroughly. I rang up a gentleman connected with the press, and he assured me that the proper way would be for you to apply to your ambassador, and that doubtless the matter could be arranged in a year or two—doubtless you would have to go to Slovaria. ”

“Well, that’s splendid. Just a year or two! That’s fine! Mighty kind of you. ”

“So pleased to do any little thing that I can. Now Mr. Turner and I have talked it over, and it seems to both of us that it would be better to have a little subtler publicity. So if you care to have him do so, your son will address the Lads’ Brigade of St. Crispin’s, Golder’s Green, next Thursday evening—the papers will give several paragraphs to this interesting occasion. And then—I do a bit in the literary way, you know—I have ventured to write an interview with you which I hope to have used by one of the papers. It goes as follows:

“‘Well, I swow! Say, dod gast my cats, this yere is by gosh all whillikens one big burg,’ was the first remark of Mrs. Tait, mother of the well-known juvenile cinema star, Terry Tait, upon arrival in London yesterday. ‘Yes-sir-ree-bob,’ she continued, ‘out thar in the broad bosom of the Golden West, out where the handclasp grows a little warmer, we get some mighty cute burgs, but nothing like this yere ant heap. ’”