“I’m nothing but nerves, doctor,” her Dreaminess lamented, fidgeting with the crucifix that dangled at her neck upon a chain. Ultra feminine, she disliked that another—even in extremis—should absorb all the limelight.
“A change of scene, ma’am, would be probably beneficial,” Dr Cuncliffe Babcock replied, eyeing askance the Countess of Tolga who unobtrusively entered:
“The couturiers attend your pleasure, ma’am,” in impassive undertones she said: “to fit your mourning.”
“Oh tell them the Queen is too tired to try on now,” her Dreaminess answered repairing in agitation towards a glass.
“They would come here, ma’am,” the Countess said, pointing persuasively to the little anteroom of the Archduchess, where two nuns of the Flaming-Hood were industriously telling their beads.
“——I don’t know why, but this glass refuses to flatter me!”
“Benedicamus Domino! Ostende nobis Domine misericordiam tuam. Et salutare tuum da nobis!”
“Well just a toque,” the Queen sadly assented.
“Indulgentiam absolutionem et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus.”
“Guess who is at the Ritz, ma’am, this week!” the Countess demurely murmured.