“Les grands coups se font respecter toujours,” was the maxim of a great tactician in war and politics; and the adage is no less true in questions of social life. We are so apt to compute the strength of resources by the amount of pretension that we often yield the victory to the mere declaration of force. We are not, however, about to dwell on this theme,--our business being less with those who discussed her, than with the Countess of Glencore herself. In a large _salon_, hung with costly tapestries, and furnished in the most expensive style, sat two ladies at opposite sides of the fire. They were both richly dressed, and one of them (it was Lady Glencore), as she held a screen before her face, displayed a number of valuable rings on her fingers, and a massive bracelet of enamel with a large emerald pendant. The other, not less magnificently attired, wore an imperial portrait suspended by a chain around her neck, and a small knot of white and green ribbon on her shoulder, to denote her quality of a lady in waiting at Court. There was something almost queenly in the haughty dignity of her manner, and an air of command in the tone with which she addressed her companion. It was our acquaintance the Princess Sabloukoff, just escaped from a dinner and reception at the Pitti Palace, and carrying with her some of the proud traditions of the society she had quitted. “What hour did you tell them they might come, Nina?” asked she. “Not before midnight, my dear Princess; I wanted to have a talk with you first. It is long since we have met, and I have so much to tell you.” “_Cara mia_,” said the other, carelessly, “I know everything already. There is nothing you have done, nothing that has happened to you, that I am not aware of. I might go further, and say that I have looked with secret pleasure at the course of events which to your short-sightedness seemed disastrous.” “I can scarce conceive that possible,” said the Countess, sighing. “Naturally enough, perhaps, because you never knew the greatest of all blessings in this life, which is--liberty. Separation from your husband, my dear Nina, did not emancipate you from the tiresome requirements of the world. You got rid of _him_, to be sure, but not of those who regarded you as his wife. It required the act of courage by which you cut with these people forever, to assert the freedom I speak of.” “I almost shudder at the contest I have provoked, and had you not insisted on it--”