"Who is that? They are going to bring her up to you," said Ferrars.
"It is the Princess Lamperti. I dare say you have heard her story. She has just divorced her husband."
They approached, and the soft, cushiony-looking woman, with so complacent an expression that it was impossible to believe that her domestic sorrow had eaten deeply into her soul, was presented to Miss Ballinger. As the honored guest of the evening, whom every one was asked to meet, all presentations were made to her.
The princess began at once,
"I saw you last night at the opera, Miss Ballinger, and I was glad to think I was to meet you to-night. Your face was very sympathique to me; I am very susceptible to fresh impressions—too much so. And you?" But she ran on without waiting for an answer. "How do you like Carmencita? Wonderful, isn't she? But, for me, I like something more—more ondoyante—more—more—how shall I say—ethereal?"
The princess, though pure American, had many foreign terms of speech, and was much addicted to foreign words.
"Certainly she is not ethereal," smiled Grace. "And yet she seems a sort of double-natured creature—a stupid peasant and—"
"A Paphian priestess!" murmured Mrs. Van Winkle, who stood near, with her head dressed like a cockatoo. "It is like the frenzied orgies that used to wind up some of their interesting rites! That intoxicating twirl of hers at the end—it is realism in extremis."
This sounded to Grace very like nonsense, but she was quick enough to respond,
"The extremis I suppose are her head and her toes? They were so mixed I could not quite tell for a moment which was which."