The Diplomatic Corps followed in a long succession. Coach after coach drew up at the entrance and discharged its burden of polite astuteness, clothed in every conceivable combination of gold and colour. Arrived at the top of the stairs, the Russian Ambassador, grey but gallant, paused and, bowing with a stately courtesy, kissed the hand Lucile extended.
"The scene is an appropriate setting to a peerless diamond," he murmured.
"Would it sparkle as brightly in the Winter Palace?" inquired Lucile lightly.
"Assuredly the frosty nights of Russia would intensify its brilliancy."
"Among so many others it would be lost."
"Among all others it would be unrivalled and alone."
"Ah," she said, "I hate publicity, and as for solitude, frosty solitude, the thought of it alone makes me shiver."
She laughed. The diplomatist threw her a look of admiration, and stepping into the crowd, that already blocked the head of the stairs, received and returned the congratulations of his numerous friends.
"Madame Tranta," said the aide-de-camp.
"I am so glad to see you," said Lucile. "What a pity your daughter could not come; it has been a great disappointment to many."