Dolores had been grateful for the respite. The shades about the court, she had noted, looked more or less material according to their naturalization into Shadow Land. She herself had been declared unusually visible, even for a new-comer, and was expected to have the habits of her late estate. She had not slept the sleep of Earth, any more than she had tasted the suggestion-foods of last night’s banquet, except as a reminiscence of taste. And yet, with eyelids closed against sight of what was, and her inner vision limited to only the dearest of what had been, she had passed into a sort of soul-rest--into memories and imaginings that were one fond, commingled dream of John Cabot. Further aroused by a subservient voice, she sank an elbow into the damask-sheened pillow; lifted herself; opened eyes and mind to the now. “Your shower is turned on, m’lady.” The repetition was in English. Before, the same words had been spoken in French. Such perfect intonation in two languages piqued her interest. She glanced around to see standing beside her couch a woman-shade in the black and white of service. “Madame’s hair is so black, perhaps she is Italian. I trust I have not startled you. His Majesty ordered that your bath be of cold cathode rays. They are very exhilarating if one can stand the shock.” Although this third offering came in the honey-sweet language of love, a look of hate was on the serving woman’s face. “Who are you?” Dolores asked in the tongue of first choice. “You may call me Adeline. I am your maid.” Somewhat disconcerted by the unservile gesture with which a robe of rainbow lights was held out for her convenience, Dolores put another question. “How do you come to speak three languages? And doesn’t the name Adeline mean of noble birth?” “Ah, Madame also is French. She will the better understand.” A smile less pleased than bitter stiffened the patrician lips. “I am of noble birth and on earth was treated according to my rank. But the judgment that consigned me to the Realm of Reversals has changed all that. Here we who were ladies serve our former maids. And hard taskmistresses they are, given thus the power to equalize their past humiliations.” A thought of the fate awaiting Catherine Cabot made Dolores shudder. “A grim conceit, that--I suppose the King’s own?” The demoted noblewoman nodded. “Not Lucretia Borgia herself could have conceived so cruel a sentence. It is not the tasks from which I suffer, but the thought of doing them. My first position was to serve the creature whom I had treated with all consideration in my household, she who afterward cost me my husband, my position in society and my life. Madame understands? I killed her. Madame’s shower is turned on.”