“Don’t what?” says Eulalia, raisin’ her long arms flutterin’.  “My dear, I don’t understand.”

“Ah, she’s hintin’ for you to ditch the Princess stuff,” I puts in.  “Ain’t that it?” and Vee nods emphatic.

Eulalia lets on that she don’t know.  “Ditch the—­why, what can he mean by that?” says she.  “And you are a Princess Charming; isn’t she, boys?”

Course the bunch admits that she is.

“There, you see?” goes on Eulalia.  “Your faithful knights acclaim you.  Who says that the age of chivalry has passed?  Why, here they are, everyone of them ready to do your lightest bidding.  Now, aren’t you, Sir Knights?”

It’s kind of a weak chorus; but the ayes seem to have it.  What other answer could there be, with Vee gazin’ flushed and pouty at ’em over the tea urn?

“Really, Eulalia, I wish you wouldn’t be so absurd,” says Vee.

“My dear Cousin Verona,” coos Eulalia, glidin’ up and huggin’ her impetuous, “how could anyone keep their heads straight before such absolutely distracting beauty?  See, you have inspired them all with the spirit of chivalry.  And now you must put them to the test.  Name some heroic deed for each to perform.  Begin with Reggy.  Now what shall it be?”

“Fudge!” says Vee, tossin’ her head.  “I’ll do nothing so perfectly mushy.”

But Cousin Eulalia wa’n’t to be squelched, nor have her grand scheme sidetracked.  “Then I declare myself Mistress of the Lists,” says she, “and I shall open the tournament for you.  Ho, Trumpeter, summon the challengers!  And—­oh, I have it.  Each of you Sir Knights must choose his own task, whatever he deems will best please our Princess Charming.  What say you to that?”

There’s a murmur of “Good business!” “Bully dope!” and the young gents begin to prick up their ears.

“Then this is how it stands,” goes on Eulalia, beamin’ delighted.  “Between now and eight o’clock this evening each knight must do his valorous best to win the approval of our Princess.  Hers it shall be to decide, the prize her gracious company for next Wednesday night.  Come now, who enters the lists?”

There’s some snickerin’ and hangin’ back; but fin’ly they’re all in.

“All save the Unknown Knight,” pipes up Eulalia, spottin’ me in the rear.  “How now, you of the Crimson Crest?  Not showing the white feather, are you?”

“Me?” says I.  “Well, I don’t quite get the drift of the game; but if it’ll make you feel any better, you can count me in.”

“Good!” says she, clappin’ her hands.  “And while you are afield I must leave too—­another tea, you know.  But we all meet here again at eight sharp, with proof or plunder.  Teddy, have you decided what to attempt?”

“Sure,” says he.  “Me to find the biggest box of candy that can be bought in New York Sunday evening.”

“Oh, splendid!” gurgles Eulalia.  “And you, Mr. Westlake?”