of Great Britain, in the hope that the cute Prince of Wales would peg her and forget about Buckingham Palace.
"There's a boy that's going to get somewhere," says Hazel. "I predict a great future for him if he works hard and tends to his knitting!"
The good-looking H. R. H. Edwards is sitting pretty at that, now isn't he?
Well, we did see the Prince of Wales at the Shawftsbury Theater, but though by actual count he once glanced in our direction, Mr. Wales was Hazel-proof, in spite of the fact that Hazel is the real McCoy and has been a disturbance amongst the annoying sex since she tossed away her rattle for a powder puff. So having failed to panic royalty and being as homesick as Robinson Crusoe, we checked out of London and started for the Gem of the Ocean.
A bone-chilling, foggy drizzle was falling and by the time we slid into Southampton it was coming down the same way it does at Niagara Falls. Hazel, the demon shopper, became crazily infatuated with a silk and lace shawl in a shop window and insisted on buying it, in spite of my advice to the opposite. Really, we had more trunks as it was than a herd of elephants! They were all full of stuff to delight the customs boys and while me and Hazel have singly and together smiled our way out of many a critical situation, these
