“Ah! How clever Shakespere!” the Countess was saying: “How gorgeous! How glowing! I once knew a speech from ‘Julia Sees Her!...’ perhaps his greatest _œuvre_ of all. Yes! ‘Julia _Sees_ Her’ is what I like best of that great, great master.” The English Ambassadress plied her fan. “Friends, Comrades, Countrymen,” she murmured, “I used to know it myself!” But the lady nibbling almonds was exciting a certain amount of comment. This was the Duchess of Varna, voted by many to be one of the handsomest women of the Court. Living in economical obscurity nearly half the year round, her appearances at the palace were becoming more and more infrequent. “I knew the Varnas were very hard up, but I did not know they were _starving_,” the Countess Yvorra, a woman with a would-be indulgent face, that was something less hard than rock, remarked to her neighbour the Count of Tolga, and dropping her glance from the Count’s weak chin she threw a fleeting smile towards his wife, who was looking “Eastern” swathed in the skin of a blue panther. “Yes, their affairs it seems are almost desperate,” the Count returned, directing his gaze towards the Duchess. Well-favoured beyond measure she certainly was, with her immense placid eyes, and bundles of loose, blonde hair. She had a gown the green of Nile water, that enhanced to perfection the swan-like fairness of her throat and arms. “I’m thinking of building myself a Villa in the Land of Dates!” she was confiding to the British Ambassador, who was standing beside her on her right: “Ah, yes! I shall end my days in a country strewn with flowers.” “You would find it I should say too hot, Duchess.” “My soul has need of the sun, Sir Somebody!” the Duchess replied, opening with equanimity a great black ostrich fan, and smiling up at him through the sticks. Sir Somebody Something was a person whose nationality was written all over him. Nevertheless, he had despite a bluff, and somewhat rugged manner, a certain degree of feminine sensitiveness, and any reference to the _soul_ at all (outside the Embassy Chapel), invariably made him fidget. “In moderation, Duchess,” he murmured, fixing his eyes upon the golden head of a champagne bottle. “They say it is a land of love!” the Duchess related, raising indolently an almond to her sinuously-chiselled lips. “And even, so it’s said, too,” his Excellency returned: “of licence!” when just at this turn of things the Royal cortège entered the supper-room, to the exhilarating strains of King Goahead’s War-March.