In the Salle de Prince or Cabinet d’Antoine, above the CafÉ Cleopatra, Madame Wetme the wife of the proprietor, sat perusing the Court gazettes.

It was not often that a cabinet particulier like Antoine was disengaged at luncheon time, being as a rule reserved many days in advance, but it had been a ‘funny’ season, as the saying went, and there was the possibility that a party of late-risers might look in yet (officers, or artistes from the Halls), who had been passing a night on the ‘tiles.’ But Madame Wetme trusted not. It was pleasant to escape every now and again from her lugubrious back-drawing-room that only faced a wall, or to peruse the early newspapers without having first to wait for them. And to-day precisely was the day for the hebdomadal causerie in the Jaw-waws’ Journal on matters appertaining to society, signed by that ever popular diarist “Eva Schnerb.”

“Never,” Madame Wetme read, ”was a gathering more brilliant than that which I witnessed last night! I stood in a corner of the Great ball room and literally gasped at the wealth of jewels.... Beauty and bravery abounded but no one, I thought, looked better than our most-gracious Queen, etc.... Among the supper-guests I saw their Excellencies Prince and Princess Paul de Pismiche,—the Princess impressed me as being just a trifle pale: she is by no means strong, and unhappily our nefarious climate does not agree with everybody! Their Excellencies, Sir Somebody and Lady Something (Miss Ivy Something charming in cornflower charmeuse danced indefatigably all the evening, as did also one of the de LambÈse girls). The Count and Countess of Tolga—she all in blue furs and literally ablaze with gorgeous gems (I hear on excellent authority she is shortly relinquishing her post of Woman of the Bedchamber which she finds is really too arduous for her). The Duchess of Varna, looking veritably radiant (by the way where has she been?) in the palest of pistachio-green mashlaks, which are all the rage at present.

---

“Have you a Mashlak?

---

“Owing to the visit of King Jotifa and Queen Thleeanouhee, the Eastern mashlak is being worn by many of the smart women about the Court. I saw an example at the Opera the other night in silver and gold lamÉ that I thought too——”

Madame Wetme broke off to look up, as a waiter entered the room.

“Did Madame ring?”

“No!...”

“Then it must have been ‘Ptolomy’!” the young man murmured, bustling out.

“I daresay. When will you know your bells?” Madame Wetme retorted, returning with a headshake to the gazette: Her beloved Eva was full of information this week and breathlessly she read on:

“I saw Minnie, Lady Violetrock (whose daughter Sonia is being educated here) at the garden fÊte the other day, at the ChÂteau des Fleurs, looking chic as she always does, in a combination of petunia and purple ninon raffling a donkey.

“I hear on the best authority that before the Court goes to the Summer-Palace later on, there will be at least one more Drawing-room. Applications, from those entitled to attend, should be made to the Lord Chamberlain as soon as possible.”

One more Drawing-room—! the journal fell from Madame Wetme’s hand.

“I’m getting on now,” she reflected, “and if I’m not presented soon, I never will be....”

She raised imploring eyes to the mural imagery—to the “Cleopatra couchant,” to the “Arrival of Anthony,” to the “Sphinx,” to the “Temple of Ra,” as though seeking inspiration: “Ah my God!” she groaned.

But Madame Wetme’s religion, her cruel God, was the Chic: The God Chic.

The sound of music from below reached her faintly. There was not a better orchestra (even at the Palace) than that which discoursed at the CafÉ Cleopatra—and they played, the thought had sometimes pleased her, the same identical tunes!

“Does it say when?” she murmured, reopening the gazette. No: But it would be “before” the Court left.... And when would that be?

“I have good grounds for believing,” she continued to read: “that in order to meet his creditors, the Duke of Varna is selling a large portion of his country estate.”

If it were true ... Madame Wetme’s eyes rested in speculation on the Oleanders in the great flower-tubs before the CafÉ, if it were true, why the Varnas must be desperate, and the Duchess ready to do anything. “Anything—for remuneration,” she murmured, rising and going towards a table usually used for correspondence. And seating herself with a look of decision, she opened a leather writing-pad, full of crab-coloured ink-marked blotting paper.

In the fan-shaped mirror above the writing-table she could see herself in fancy, all veils and aigrettes, as she would be on “the day” when coiffed by Ernst.

“Among a bevy of charming dÉbutantes, no one looked more striking than Madame Wetme, who was presented by the Duchess of Varna.” Being a client of the house (with an unpaid bill) she could dictate to Eva.... But first, of course, she must secure the Duchess. And taking up her pen she wrote: “Madame Wetme would give the Duchess of Varna fifty thousand crowns to introduce her at Court.” A trifle terse perhaps?? Madame Wetme considered. How if the Duchess should take offence.... It was just conceivable! And besides, by specifying no fixed sum, she might be got for less.

“Something more mysterious, more delicate in style....” Madame Wetme murmured with a sigh, beginning the letter anew:

“If the Duchess of Varna will call on Madame Wetme this afternoon, about five, and partake of a cup of tea, she will hear of something to her advantage.”

Madame Wetme smiled: “That should get her!” she reflected, and selecting an envelope, she directed it boldly to the Ritz. “Being hard up, she is sure to be there!” she reasoned, as she left the room in quest of a page.

The French maid of the Duchess of Varna was just putting on her mistress’s shoes, in a private sitting-room at the Ritz, when Madame Wetme’s letter arrived.

The pleasure of being in the capital once more, after a long spell of the country, had given her an appetite for her lunch and she was feeling braced after an excellent meal.

“I shall not be back, I expect, till late, Louison,” she said to her maid, “and should anyone enquire where I am, I shall either be at the Palace, or at the Skating-Rink.”

“Madame la Duchesse will not be going to her corsetier’s?”

“It depends if there’s time. What did I do with my shopping-list?” the Duchess replied, gathering up abstractedly a large, becoroneted vanity-case and a parasol. She had a gown of khaki and daffodil and a black tricorne hat trimmed with green. “Give me my other sunshade, the jade—and don’t forget—: On me trouvera, Soit au Palais Royal, soit, au Palais de Glace!” she enjoined sailing quickly out.

Leaving the Ritz by a side door, she found herself in a quiet, shady street, bordering the Regina Gardens. Above a sky so blue, so clear, so luminous seemed to cry out: “Nothing matters! Why worry? Be sanguine! Amuse yourself! Nothing matters!”

Traversing the gardens, her mind preoccupied by Madame Wetme’s note, the Duchess branched off into a busy thoroughfare, leading towards the Opera, in whose vicinity lay the city’s principal shops. To learn of anything to one’s advantage was, of course, always welcome, but there were various other claims upon her besides that afternoon, which she was unable, or loath to ignore—the palace, a thÉ dansant or two, and then her favourite rink ... although the unfortunate part was, most of the rink instructors were still unpaid, and, on the last occasion she had hired a man to waltz with her, he had taken advantage of the fact by pressing her waist with greater freedom than she felt he need have done.

Turning into the Opera Square with its fine arcades, she paused, half furtively, before a Florist’s shop. Only her solicitors and a few in the secret were aware that the premises known as Haboubet of Egypt were her own; for fearful lest they might be occupied one day by sheriffs’ officers, the little business venture had been kept the closest mystery. Lilies “from Karnak,” Roses “from the Land of Punt” (all grown in the gardens of her country house, in the purlieus of the capital) found immediate and daily favour among amateurs of the choice. Indeed as her gardener frequently said, the demand for Roses from the Land of Punt, was more than he could possibly cope with without an extra man.

“I may as well run in and take whatever there’s in the till,” she reflected—“not that, I fear, there’s much....”

The superintendent, a slim Tunisian boy, was crouching pitcher-posture upon the floor, chanting languidly to himself, his head supported by an osier pannier lately arrived from “Punt.”

“Up, Bachir!” the Duchess upbraided. “Remember the fresh consignments perish, while you dream there and sing.”

The young Tunisian smiled.

He worshipped the Duchess, and the song he was improvising as she entered, had been inspired by her. In it (had she known) he had led her by devious tender stages to his Father’s fondouk at Tifilalet “on the blue Lake of Fetzara,” where he was about to present her to the Cheikh, and the whole assembled village, as his chosen bride.

The Duchess considered him. He had a beautiful face spoiled by a bad complexion, which doubtless (the period of puberty passed) he would outgrow.

“Consignment him come not two minute,” the youth replied.

“Ah Bachir? Bachir!”

“By the glorious Koran, I will swear it.”

“Be careful not to shake those Alexandrian Balls,” the Duchess peremptorily enjoined pointing towards some Guelder-roses—“or they’ll fall before they’re sold!”

“No matter at all. They sold already! An American lady this morning, she purchase all my Alexandrian-Balls; two heavy bunch.”

“Let me see your takings.”...

With a smile of triumph, Bachir turned towards the till. He had the welfare of the establishment at heart as well as his own, and of an evening often he would flit, garbed in his long gandourah, through the chief CafÉs and Dancings’ of the city, a vast pannier heaped high with flowers upon his head, which he would dispose of to dazzled clients for an often exorbitant sum. But for these excursions of his (which ended on occasion in adventure) he had received no authority at all.

“Not so bad,” the Duchess commented: “And, as there’s to be a Court again soon, many orders for bouquets are sure to come in!”

“I call in outside hands to assist me: I summon Ouardi! He an Armenian boy. Sympathetic. My friend. More attached to him am I than a branch of Jessamine is about a Vine.”

“I suppose he’s capable?” the Duchess murmured, pinning a green-ribbed orchid to her dress.

“The garlands of Ouardi would make even a jackal look bewitching!”

“Ah: he has taste?”

“I engage my friend. Much work always in the month of Redjeb!”

“Engage nobody,” the Duchess answered as she left the shop, “until I come again.”

Hailing one of the little shuttered cabs of the city in the square she directed the driver to drop her at the palace gates, and pursued by an obstreperous newsboy with an evening paper, yelling: “Chedorlahomor! Sodom! Extra Special!” the cab clattered off at a languid trot. Under the plane-trees, near the Houses of Parliament, she was overtaken by the large easy-stepping horses of the Ambassadress of England, and acknowledged with a winning movement of the wrist, Lady Something’s passing acceuil. It was yet not quite the correct hour for the Promenade, where beneath the great acacias Society liked best to ride or drive, but, notwithstanding, that zealous reporter of social deeds, the irrepressible Eva Schnerb, was already on the prowl and able with satisfaction to note: “I saw the Duchess of Varna early driving in the Park, all alone in a little one-horse shay, that really looked more elegant than any Delaunay-Belleville!”

Arriving before the palace gates, the Duchess perceived an array of empty carriages waiting in the drive, which made her apprehensive of a function. She had anticipated an intimate chat with the Queen alone, but this it seemed was not to be.

Following a youthful page with a resigned face, down a long black rug woven with green and violet flowers, who left her with a sigh (as if disappointed of a tip) in charge of a couple of giggling colleagues, and who, in turn, propelled her towards a band of sophisticated-looking footmen and grim officials, she was shewn at last into a vast white drawing-room whose ceiling formed a dome.

Knowing the Queen’s interest in the Chedorlahomor Excavation Bill, a number of representative folk, such as the wives of certain Politicians or Diplomats, as well as a few of her own more immediate circle, had called to felicitate her upon its success. Parliament had declared itself willing to do the unlimited graceful by all those concerned, and this in a great measure was due to the brilliant wire pulling of the Queen.

She was looking singularly French in a gold helmet and a violet Vortniansky gown, and wore a rope of faultless pearls, clasped very high beneath the chin.

“I hope the Archbishop will bless the Excavators’ tools!” she was saying to the wife of the Premier, as the Duchess entered. “The picks at any rate....”

That lady made no reply: In presence of royalty she would usually sit and smile at her knees, raising her eyes from time to time to throw, beneath her lashes, an ineffable expiring glance.

“God speed them safe home again!” the Archduchess Elizabeth who was busy knitting said. An ardent philanthropist she had begun already making “comforts” for the men, as the nights in the East are cold. The most philanthropic perhaps of all the Royal Family, her hobby was designing, for the use of the public, sanitary, but artistic, places of Necessity on a novel system of ventilation. The King had consented to open (and it was expected appropriately) one of these in course of construction in the Opera Square.

“Amen,” the Queen answered, signalling amiably to the Duchess of Varna, whose infrequent visits to court disposed her always to make a fuss of her.

But no fuss the Queen could make of the Duchess of Varna, could exceed that being made by Queen Thleeanouhee, in a far-off corner, of her Excellency, Lady Something. The sympathy, the entente indeed that had arisen between these two ladies was exercising considerably the minds of certain members of the diplomatic corps, although had anyone wished to eavesdrop, their conversation upon the whole must have been found to be anything but esoteric.

“What I want,” Queen Thleeanouhee was saying, resting her hand confidentially on her Excellency’s knee: “what I want is an English maid with Frenchified fingers—— Is there such a thing to be had?”

“But surely——” Lady Something smiled: for the servant-topic was one she felt at home on.

“In Dateland, my dear, servant girls are nothing but sluts.”

“Life is like that, ma’am, I regret indeed, to have to say: I once had a housemaid who had lived with Sarah Bernhardt, and oh, wasn’t she a terror!” Lady Something declared, warding off a little black bat-eared dog who was endeavouring to scramble on to her lap.

“Teddywegs, Teddywegs!” the Archduchess exclaimed jumping up and advancing to capture her pet: “He arrived from London not later than this morning,” she said: “from the Princess Elsie of England.”

“He looks like some special litter,” Lady Something remarked.

“How the dear girl loves animals!”

“The rumour of her betrothal it seems is quite without foundation?”

“To my nephew: ah alas....”

“Prince Yousef and she are of an equal age!”

“She is interested in Yousef I’m inclined to believe; but the worst of life is, nearly everyone marches to a different tune,” the Archduchess replied.

“One hears of her nothing that isn’t agreeable.”

“Like her good mother, Queen Glory,” the Archduchess said, “one feels, of course, she’s all she should be.”

Lady Something sighed.

“Yes ... and even more!” she murmured, letting fall a curtsy to King William who had entered. He had been lunching at the Headquarters of the Girl Guides, and wore the uniform of a general.

“What is the acme of nastiness?” he paused of the English Ambassadress to enquire.

Lady Something turned paler than the white candytuft that is found on ruins. “Oh la, sir,” she stammered, “how should I know!”

The King looked the shrinking matron slowly up and down: “The supreme disgust——”

“Oh la, sir!” Lady Something stammered again.

But the King took pity on her evident confusion: “Tepid potatoes,” he answered, “on a stone-cold plate.”

The Ambassadress beamed.

“I trust the warmth of the girls, sir, compensated you for the coldness of the plates?” she ventured.

“The inspection, in the main, was satisfactory! Although I noticed that one or two of the guides, seemed inclined to lead astray,” the King replied, regarding Teddywegs, who was inquisitively sniffing his spurs.

“He’s strange yet to everything,” the Archduchess commented.

“What’s this—a new dog?”

“From Princess Elsie....”

“They say she’s stupid, but I do not know that intellect is always a blessing!” the King declared, drooping his eyes to his abdomen, with an air of pensive modesty.

“Poor child, she writes she is tied to the shore, so that I suppose she is unable to leave dear England.”

“Tied to it?”

“And bound till goodness knows.”

“As was Andromeda!” the King sententiously exclaimed.... “She would have little, or maybe nothing, to wear,” he clairvoyantly went on: “I see her standing shivering, waiting for Yousef.... Chained by the leg, perhaps, exposed to the howling winds.”3

“Nonsense. She means to say she can’t get away yet on account of her engagements: that’s all.”

“After Cowes-week,” Lady Something put in, “she is due to pay a round of visits before joining her parents in the North.”

“How I envy her,” the Archduchess sighed, “amid that entrancing scene....”

Lady Something looked attendrie.

“Your royal highness is attached to England?” she asked.

“I fear I was never there.... But I shall always remember I put my hair up when I was twelve years old because of the Prince of Wales.”

“Oh? And ... which of the Georges?” Lady Something gasped.

“It’s so long ago now that I really forget.”

“And pray, ma’am, what was the point of it?”

The Archduchess chuckled:

“Why, so as to look eligible of course!” she replied, returning to her knitting.

Amid the general flutter following the King’s appearance, it was easy enough for the Duchess of Varna to slip away. Knowing the palace inside out it was unnecessary to make any fuss. Passing through a long room, where a hundred holland-covered chairs stood grouped, Congresswise, around a vast table, she attained the Orangery, that gave access to the drive. The mellay of vehicles had considerably increased, and the Duchess paused a moment to consider which she should borrow, when recollecting she wished to question one of the royal gardeners on a little matter of mixing manure, she decided to return through the castle grounds instead. Taking a path that descended between rhododendrons and grim old cannons towards the town, she was comparing the capriciousness of certain bulbs to that of certain people, when she heard her name called from behind, and glancing round perceived the charming silhouette of the Countess of Tolga.

“I couldn’t stand it inside: Could you?”

“My dear, what a honeymoon hat!”

“It was made by me!”

“Oh, Violet....” the Duchess murmured, her face taking on a look of wonder.

“Don’t forget, dear, Sunday.”

“Is it a party?”

“I’ve asked Grim-lips and Ladybird, Hairy and Fluffy, Hardylegs and Bluewings, Spindleshanks, and Our Lady of Furs.”

“Not Nanny-goat?”

“Luckily ...” the Countess replied, raising to her nose the heliotropes in her hand.

“Is he no better?”

“You little know, dear, what it is to be all alone with him chez soi when he thinks and sneers into the woodwork.”

“Into the woodwork?”

“He addresses the ceiling, the walls, the floor—me never!”

“Dear dove.”

“All I can I’m plastic.”

“Can one be plastic ever enough, dear?”

“Often but for Olga ...” the Countess murmured, considering a little rosy ladybird on her arm.

“I consider her ever so compelling, ever so wistful—” the Duchess of Varna averred.

“Sweet girl—! She’s just my consolation.”

“She reminds me, does she you, of that Miss Hobart in de Grammont’s Memoirs.”

“C’est une ame exquise!”

“Well au revoir, dear: We shall meet again at the Princess Leucippe’s later on,” the duchess said, detecting her gardener in the offing.

By the time she had obtained her recipe and cajoled a few special shoots from various exotic plants, the sun had begun to decline. Emerging from the palace by a postern-gate, where lounged a sentry, she found herself almost directly beneath the great acacias on the Promenade. Under the lofty leafage of the trees, as usual towards this hour, society, in its varying grades had congregated to be gazed upon. Mounted on an eager-headed little horse his Weariness (who loved being seen) was plying up and down, while in his wake a “screen artiste,” on an Arabian mare with powdered withers and eyes made up with kohl, was creating a sensation. Every time she used her whip the powder rose in clouds. Wending her way through the throng the duchess recognised the rose-harnessed horses of Countess Medusa Rappa—the Countess bolt upright, her head carried stiffly staring with a pathetic expression of dead joie-de-vie between her coachman’s and footman’s waists. But the intention of calling at the CafÉ Cleopatra caused the duchess to hasten. The possibility of learning something beneficial to herself was a lure not to be resisted. Pausing to allow the marvellous blue automobile of Count Ann-Jules to pass (with the dancer Kalpurnia inside), she crossed the Avenue, where there seemed, on the whole, to be fewer people. Here she remarked a little ahead of her the masculine form of the Countess Yvorra, taking a quiet stroll before Salut in the company of her Confessor. In the street she usually walked with her hands clasped behind her back, huddled up like a statesman: “Des choses abominables!... Des choses hors nature!” she was saying, in tones of evident relish, as the duchess passed.

Meanwhile Madame Wetme was seated anxiously by the samovar in her drawing-room. To receive the duchess, she had assumed a mashlak À la mode, whitened her face and rouged her ears, and set a small, but costly aigrette at an insinuating angle in the edifice of her hair. As the hour of Angelus approached, the tension of waiting grew more and more acute, and beneath the strain of expectation even the little iced-sugar cakes upon the tea-table looked green with worry.

Suppose, after all, she shouldn’t come? Suppose she had already left? Suppose she were in prison? Only the other day a woman of the highest fashion, a leader of “society” with an A, had served six months as a consequence of her extravagance....

In agitation Madame Wetme helped herself to a small glassful of Cointreau, (her favourite liqueur) when, feeling calmer for the consommation, she was moved to take a peep out of Antoine.

But nobody chic at all met her eye.

Between the oleanders upon the curb, that rose up darkly against a flame-pink sky, two young men dressed “as Poets” were arguing and gesticulating freely over a bottle of beer. Near them, a sailor with a blue drooping collar and dusty boots (had he walked, poor wretch, to see his mother?) was gazing stupidly at the large evening gnats that revolved like things bewitched about the cafÉ lamps. While below the window a lean soul in glasses, evidently an impresario, was loudly exclaiming: “London has robbed me of my throat, sir!! It has deprived me of my voice.”

No, an “off” night certainly!

Through a slow, sun-flower of a door (that kept on revolving long after it had been pushed) a few military men bent on a game of billiards, or an early fille de joie (only the discreetest des filles “serieuses” were supposed to be admitted)—came and went.

“To-night they’re fit for church,” Madame Wetme complacently smiled as the door swung round again: “Navy-blue and silver-fox looks the goods,” she reflected, “upon any occasion! It suggests something sly—like a Nurse’s uniform.”

“A lady in the drawing-room, Madame, desires to speak to you,” a chasseur tunefully announced, and fingering nervously her aigrette Madame Wetme followed.

The Duchess of Varna was inspecting a portrait with her back to the door as her hostess entered.

“I see you’re looking at my Murillo!” Madame Wetme began.

“Oh.... Is it o-ri-gi-nal?” the duchess drawled.

“No.”

“I thought not.”

“To judge by the Bankruptcy-sales of late (and it’s curious how many there’ve been ...) it would seem from the indifferent figure he makes, that he is no longer accounted chic,” Madame Wetme observed as she drew towards the duchess a chair.

“I consider the chic to be such a very false religion!...” the duchess said, accepting the seat which was offered her.

“Well, I come of an old Huguenot family myself!”

“——...?”

“Ah my early home.... Now, I hear, it’s nothing but a weed-crowned ruin.”

The duchess considered the ivory cat handle of her parasol: “You wrote to me?” she asked.

“Yes: about the coming court.”

“About it?”

“Every woman has her dream, duchess! And mine’s to be presented.”

“The odd ambition!” the duchess crooned.

“I admit we live in the valley. Although I have a great sense of the hills!” Madame Wetme declared demurely.

“Indeed?”

“My husband you see ...”

“...............”

“Ah! well!”

“Of course.”

“If I’m not asked this time, I shall die of grief.”

“Have you made the request before?”

“I have attempted!”

“Well?”

“When the Lord Chamberlain refused me, I shed tears of blood,” Madame Wetme wanly retailed.

“It would have been easier, no doubt, in the late king’s time!”

Madame Wetme took a long sighing breath.

“I only once saw him in my life,” she said, “and then he was standing against a tree, in an attitude offensive to modesty.”

“Tell me ... as a public man, what has your husband done——”

“His money helped to avert, I always contend, the noisy misery of a War!”

“He’s open-handed?”

“Ah ... as you would find....”

The duchess considered: “I might,” she said, “get you cards for a State concert....”

“A State concert, duchess? That’s no good to me!”

“A drawing-room you know is a very dull affair.”

“I will liven it!”

“Or an invitation perhaps to begin with to one of the Embassies—the English for instance might lead....”

“Nowhere...! You can’t depend on that: people have asked me to lunch, and left me to pay for them...! There is so much trickery in Society....” Madame Wetme laughed.

The duchess smiled quizzically: “I forget if you know the Tolgas,” she said.

“By ‘name’!”

“The Countess is more about the throne at present than I.”

“Possibly—but oh you who do everything, duchess?” Madame Wetme entreated.

“I suppose there are things still one wouldn’t do however——!” the duchess took offence.

“The Tolgas are so hard.”

“You want a misfortune and they’re sweet to you. Successful persons they’re positively hateful to!”

“These women of the Bedchamber are all alike, so glorified. You would never credit they were Chambermaids at all! I often smile to myself when I see one of them at a premiÈre at the Opera, gorged with pickings, and think that, most likely, but an hour before she was stumbling along a corridor with a pailful of slops!”

“You’re fond of music, Madame?” the duchess asked.

“It’s my joy: I could go again and again to The Blue Banana!”

“I’ve not been.”

“Pom-pom, pompity-pom! We might go one night, perhaps, together.”

“...”

“Doudja Degdeg is always a draw, although naturally now she is getting on!”

“And I fear so must I”—the duchess rose remarking.

“So soon?”

“I’m only so sorry I can’t stay longer——!”

“Then it’s all decided,” Madame Wetme murmured archly as she pressed the bell.

“Oh I’d not say that.”

“If I’m not asked, remember this time, I shall die with grief.”

“To-night the duke and I are dining with the Leucippes, and possibly ...” the duchess broke off to listen to the orchestra in the cafÉ below, which was playing the waltz-air from Der Rosenkavalier.

“They play well!” she commented.

“People often tell me so.”

“It must make one restless, dissatisfied, that yearning, yearning music continually at the door?”

Madame Wetme sighed.

“It makes you often long,” she said, “to begin your life again!”

“Again?”

“Really it’s queer I came to yoke myself with a man so little fine....”

“Still——! If he’s open-handed,” the duchess murmured as she left the room.