“Then it must have been ‘Ptolomy’!” the young man murmured, bustling out.
“I daresay. When will you know your bells?” Madame Wetme retorted, returning with a headshake to the gazette: Her beloved Eva was full of information this week and breathlessly she read on:
“I saw Minnie, Lady Violetrock (whose daughter Sonia is being educated here) at the garden fête the other day, at the Château des Fleurs, looking chic as she always does, in a combination of petunia and purple ninon raffling a donkey.
“I hear on the best authority that before the Court goes to the Summer-Palace later on, there will be at least one more Drawing-room. Applications, from those entitled to attend, should be made to the Lord Chamberlain as soon as possible.”
One more Drawing-room—! the journal fell from Madame Wetme’s hand.
“I’m getting on now,” she reflected, “and if I’m not presented soon, I never will be....”
She raised imploring eyes to the mural imagery—to the “Cleopatra couchant,” to the “Arrival of Anthony,” to the “Sphinx,” to the “Temple of Ra,” as though seeking inspiration: “Ah my God!” she groaned.
But Madame Wetme’s religion, her cruel God, was the Chic: The God Chic.
The sound of music from below reached her faintly. There was not a better orchestra (even at the Palace) than that which discoursed at the Café Cleopatra—and they played, the thought had sometimes pleased her, the same identical tunes!
“Does it say when?” she murmured, reopening the gazette. No: But it would be “before” the Court left.... And when would that be?