“Elsie?” A look of wondrous happiness overspread the Archduchess’ face--She was wading--wading again among the irises and rushes; wading, her hand in Princess Elsie’s hand, through a glittering golden sea, towards the wide horizon. The plangent cry of a peacock, rose disquietingly from the garden. “I’m nothing but nerves, doctor,” her Dreaminess lamented, fidgeting with the crucifix that dangled at her neck upon a chain. _Ultra_ feminine, she disliked that another--even _in extremis_--should absorb _all_ the limelight. “A change of scene, ma’am, would be probably beneficial,” Dr Cuncliffe Babcock replied, eyeing askance the Countess of Tolga who unobtrusively entered: “The couturiers attend your pleasure, ma’am,” in impassive undertones she said: “to fit your mourning.” “Oh tell them the Queen is too tired to try on now,” her Dreaminess answered repairing in agitation towards a glass. “They would come here, ma’am,” the Countess said, pointing persuasively to the little anteroom of the Archduchess, where two nuns of the Flaming-Hood were industriously telling their beads. “----I don’t know why, but this glass refuses to flatter me!” “_Benedicamus Domino! Ostende nobis Domine misericordiam tuam. Et salutare tuum da nobis!_” “Well just a toque,” the Queen sadly assented. “_Indulgentiam absolutionem et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus._” “Guess who is at the Ritz, ma’am, this week!” the Countess demurely murmured. “Who is at the Ritz this week, I can’t,” the Queen replied. “_Nobody!_” “Why how so?” “The Ambassadress of England, it seems has alarmed the world away. I gather they mean to prosecute!” The Archduchess sighed. “I want mauve sweet-peas,” she listlessly said. “Her spirit soars; her thoughts are in the _Champs-Elysées_,” the Countess exclaimed, withdrawing noiselessly to warn the milliners. “Or in the garden,” the Queen reflected, returning to the window. And she was standing there, her eyes fixed half wistfully upon the long ivory arms of the kneeling gardener, when the Angel of Death (who had sat unmoved throughout the day) arose. It was decided to fix a period of mourning of fourteen days for the late Archduchess. VII Swans and sunlight. A little fishing boat with coral sails. A lake all grey and green. Beatitude intense. Consummate calm. It was nice to be at the Summer-Palace after all. “The way the air will catch your cheek and make a rose of it,” the Countess of Tolga breathed. And as none of the company heeded her: “How sweetly the air takes one’s cheek,” she sighed again. The post-prandial exercise of the members of the Court through the palace grounds was almost an institution. The first half of the mourning prescribed, had as yet not run its course, but the tongues of the Queen’s ladies had long since made an end of it.