“Who is at the Ritz this week, I can’t,” the Queen replied.
“Nobody!”
“Why how so?”
“The Ambassadress of England, it seems has alarmed the world away. I gather they mean to prosecute!”
The Archduchess sighed.
“I want mauve sweet-peas,” she listlessly said.
“Her spirit soars; her thoughts are in the Champs-Elysées,” the Countess exclaimed, withdrawing noiselessly to warn the milliners.
“Or in the garden,” the Queen reflected, returning to the window. And she was standing there, her eyes fixed half wistfully upon the long ivory arms of the kneeling gardener, when the Angel of Death (who had sat unmoved throughout the day) arose.
It was decided to fix a period of mourning of fourteen days for the late Archduchess.