"It would be much better for poor Genevra if she were to be buried instead of married next week," lamented the Duchess.
"My dear, how ridiculous. She isn't dead yet, by any manner of means. Why bury her? She's got plenty of life left in her, as Karl Brabetz will learn before long." Thus spoke the far-sighted Marchioness, aunt of the bride-to-be. "It's terribly gruesome to speak of burying people before they are actually dead."
"Other women have married princes and got on very well," said Prince Lichtenstein.
"Oh, come now, Prince," put in Lord Deppingham, "you know the sort of chap Brabetz is. There are princes and princes, by Jove."
"He's positively vile!" exclaimed the Duchess, who would not mince words.
"She's entering upon a hell of a—I mean a life of hell," exploded the Duke, banging the table with his fist. "That fellow Brabetz is the rottenest thing in Europe. He's gone from bad to worse so swiftly that public opinion is still months behind him."
"Nice way to talk of the groom," said the host genially. "I quite agree with you, however. I cannot understand the Grand Duke permitting it to go on—unless, of course, it's too late to interfere."
"Poor dear, she'll never know what it is to be loved and cherished," said the Marchioness dolefully.
Lord and Lady Deppingham glanced at each other. They were thinking of the man who stood on the dock at Aratat when the King's Own sailed away.
"The Grand Duke is probably saying the very thing to himself that Brabetz's associates are saying in public," ventured a young Austrian count.