“The Summer-Palace, then,” the Countess ejaculated, examining her long slender fingers that were like the tendrils of a plant.
“Dr Cuncliffe Babcock flatly forbids it,” the Royal woman declared, starting slightly at the sound of a gun: “That must be the Dates!” she said. And in effect, a vague reverberation, as of individuals cheering, resounded fitfully from afar. “Give me my diamond anemones,” the Queen commanded, and motioning to her Maid: “Pray conclude, mademoiselle, those lofty lines.”
With a slight sigh, the lectress took up the posture of a Dying Intellectual.
“Live with an aim, and let that aim be high!” she reiterated in tones tinged perceptibly with emotion.
“But not too high, remember, Mademoiselle de Nazianzi....”
There was a short pause. And then—
“Ah Madam! What a dearest he is!”
“I think you forget yourself,” the Queen murmured with a quelling glance. “You had better withdraw.”
“He has such strength! One could niche an idol in his dear, dinted chin.”
“Enough!”