“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!