Produced by Tim Lindell, Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) THE FLOWER BENEATH THE FOOT PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED EDINBURGH [Illustration] THE FLOWER BENEATH THE FOOT BEING A RECORD OF THE EARLY LIFE OF ST. LAURA DE NAZIANZI AND THE TIMES IN WHICH SHE LIVED [Illustration] BY RONALD FIRBANK WITH A DECORATION BY C. R. W. NEVINSON AND PORTRAITS BY AUGUSTUS JOHN AND WYNDHAM LEWIS LONDON GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 1923 To Madame Mathieu and Mademoiselle Dora Garnier-Pagès “Some girls are born organically good: I wasn’t.” ST LAURA DE NAZIANZI. “It was about my eighteenth year that I conquered my _Ego_.” IBID. I Neither her Gaudiness the Mistress of the Robes, or her Dreaminess the Queen were feeling quite themselves. In the Palace all was speculation. Would they be able to attend the _Fêtes_ in honour of King Jotifa, and Queen Thleeanouhee of the Land of Dates?--Court opinion seemed largely divided. Countess Medusa Rappa, a woman easily disturbable, was prepared to wager what the Countess of Tolga “liked” (she knew), that another week would find the Court shivering beneath the vaulted domes of the Summer-Palace. “I fear I’ve no time (or desire) now, Medusa,” the Countess answered, moving towards the Royal apartments, “for making bets,” though turning before the ante-room door she nodded: “Done!” She found her sovereign supine on a couch piled with long Tunisian cushions, while a maid of honour sat reading to her aloud : “_Live with an aim, and let that aim be high!_” the girl was saying as the Countess approached. “Is that you, Violet?” her Dreaminess enquired without looking round. “How is your condition, Madam?” the Countess anxiously murmured. “Tell me, do, of a place that soothes and lulls one----?” The Countess of Tolga considered. “Paris,” she hazarded. “Ah! Impossible.” “The Summer-Palace, then,” the Countess ejaculated, examining her long slender fingers that were like the tendrils of a plant. “Dr Cuncliffe Babcock flatly forbids it,” the Royal woman declared, starting slightly at the sound of a gun: “That must be _the Dates_!” she said. And in effect, a vague reverberation, as of individuals cheering, resounded fitfully from afar. “Give me my diamond anemones,” the Queen commanded, and motioning to her Maid: “Pray conclude, mademoiselle, those lofty lines.” With a slight sigh, the lectress took up the posture of a Dying Intellectual. “_Live with an aim, and let that aim be high!_” she reiterated in tones tinged perceptibly with emotion. “But not _too_ high, remember, Mademoiselle de Nazianzi....” There was a short pause. And then-- “Ah Madam! What a dearest he is!”