Miss Brandt had a large box of chocolates beside her, into which she continually dipped her hand. Her mouth, too, was stained with the delicate sweetmeat—she was always eating, either fruit or bonbons. She handed the box now, with a timid air, to the Baroness.
“Do you care for chocolate, Madame?” she asked.
The Baroness did not like to be called “Madame” according to the French fashion. She thought it derogated from her dignity. She wished everyone to address her as “my lady,” and considered she was cheated out of her rights when it was omitted. But she liked chocolate almost as well as Harriet did.
“Thank you! I’ll ’ave a few!” she said, grabbing about a dozen in her huge hand at the first venture. “What a liking for candies the Amurricans seem to ’ave introduced into England! I can remember the time when you never saw such a thing as sweets in the palace—I don’t think they were allowed—and now they’re all over the place. I shouldn’t wonder if Her Majesty hasn’t a box or two in her private apartments, and as for the Princesses, well!—”
“The Palace!—Her Majesty!”—echoed Miss Brandt, opening her dark eyes very wide.
“As I tell ’em,” continued the Baroness, “they won’t ’ave a tooth left amongst the lot of ’em soon! What are you staring at?”
“But—but—do you go to the Queen’s palace?” demanded Harriet, incredulously, as well she might.
“Not unless I’m sent for, you may take your oath! I ain’t fond enough of ’em for all that; besides, Windsor’s ’orribly damp and don’t suit me at all. But you mustn’t go and repeat what I tell you, in the Hotel. It might give offence in high places if I was known to talk of it. You see there’s some of ’em has never seen me since I married the Baron! Being in trade, they thought ’e wasn’t good enough for me! I’ve ’eard that when Lady Morton—the dowager Countess, you know—was asked if she ’ad seen me lately, she called out loud enough for the whole room to ’ear, ‘Do you mean the woman that married the boot man? No! I ’aven’t seen ’er, and I don’t mean to either!’ Ha! ha! ha! But I can afford to laugh at all that, my dear!”
“But—I don’t quite understand!” said Harriet Brandt, with a bewildered look.
“Why! the Baron deals in shoe-leather! ’Aven’t you ’eard it? I suppose we’ve got the largest manufactory in Germany! Covers four acres of ground, I give you my word!”