“Your back is charming, dear, c’est un dos d’élite.”
“I doubt, though, it’s classic,” Miss Edwards murmured, pirouetting slowly before the glass.
But Madame Ruiz was perusing her correspondence, and seemed to be absorbed.
“They’re to be married, in Munich, on the fifth,” she chirruped.
“Who?”
“Elsie and Baron Sitmar.”
“Ah, Ta-ra, dear! In those far worlds....” Miss Edwards impatiently exclaimed, opening wide a window and leaning out.
Beneath the flame-trees, with their spreading tops, one mass of crimson flower, coolly, white-garbed gardeners, with naked feet and big bell-shaped hats of straw, were sweeping slowly, as in some rhythmic dance, the flamboyant blossoms that had fallen to the ground.
“Wasn’t little Madame Haase, dear, born Kattie von Guggenheim?”
“I really don’t know,” Miss Edwards returned, flapping away a fly with her fan.