Neither her Gaudiness the Mistress of the Robes, or her Dreaminess the Queen were feeling quite themselves. In the Palace all was speculation. Would they be able to attend the Fêtes in honour of King Jotifa, and Queen Thleeanouhee of the Land of Dates?—Court opinion seemed largely divided. Countess Medusa Rappa, a woman easily disturbable, was prepared to wager what the Countess of Tolga “liked” (she knew), that another week would find the Court shivering beneath the vaulted domes of the Summer-Palace.
“I fear I’ve no time (or desire) now, Medusa,” the Countess answered, moving towards the Royal apartments, “for making bets,” though turning before the ante-room door she nodded: “Done!”
She found her sovereign supine on a couch piled with long Tunisian cushions, while a maid of honour sat reading to her aloud :
“Live with an aim, and let that aim be high!” the girl was saying as the Countess approached.
“Is that you, Violet?” her Dreaminess enquired without looking round.
“How is your condition, Madam?” the Countess anxiously murmured.
“Tell me, do, of a place that soothes and lulls one——?”
The Countess of Tolga considered.
“Paris,” she hazarded.
“Ah! Impossible.”