“These earrings tire me,” she said, “take them out.”
But the Prince, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the success of his appearance with the crowd, had already begun tossing the contents of the flower vases into the street.
“Willie ... prevent him! Yousef ... I forbid you!” her Dreaminess faintly shrieked. And to stay her son’s despoiling hand she skimmed towards him, when the populace catching sight of her, redoubled their cheers.
Meanwhile Mademoiselle de Nazianzi had regained again her composure. A niece of her Gaudiness the Mistress of the Robes (the Duchess of Cavaljos), her recent début at Court, had been made under the brightest conceivable of conditions.
Laura Lita Carmen Etoile de Nazianzi was more piquant perhaps than pretty. A dozen tiny moles were scattered about her face, while on either side of her delicate nose, a large grey eye surveyed the world with a pensive critical glance.
“Scenes like that make one sob with laughter,” she reflected, turning into the corridor where two of the Maids of Honour, like strutting idols, were passing up and down.
“Is she really very ill? Is she really dying?” they breathlessly enquired.
Mademoiselle de Nazianzi disengaged herself from their solicitously entwining arms.
“She is not!” she answered, in a voice full of eloquent inflections.
But beguiled by the sound of marching feet, one of the girls had darted forward towards a window.