this would be in the American girl's orderly existence! And _he_ was to
be there, he had promised the princess.

Her heart was overflowing when she was graciously received by the great
lady who stood in the centre of a group at the back of the
drawing-room--a lofty apartment in white and gold, the panels painted by
Baudry, the furniture purest Empire. She noted the height and majestic
bearing of this cousin of kings, noted the aquiline nose drooped over a
contracted mouth--which could assume most winning curves, withal shaded
by suspicious down, that echoed in hue her inky eyebrows. The eyes of
the princess were small and green and her glance penetrating. Her white
hair rolled imperially from a high, narrow forehead.

Ermentrude bore herself with the utmost composure. She adored the Old
World, adored genius, but after all she was an Adams of New Hampshire,
her sister the wife of a former ambassador. It was more curiosity than
_gaucherie_ that prompted her to hold the hand offered her and
scrutinize the features as if to evoke from the significant, etched
wrinkles the tremendous past of this hostess. The princess was pleased.

"Ah, Miss Adams," she said, in idiomatic English, "you have candid eyes.
You make me feel like telling stories when you gaze at me so
appealingly. Don't be shocked"--the girl had coloured--"perhaps I shall,
after a while."

Mr. Sheldam had slipped into a corner behind a very broad table and
under the shaded lamps examined some engravings. Mrs. Sheldam talked in
hesitating French to the Marquis de Potachre, an old fellow of venerable
and burlesque appearance. His fierce little white mustaches were curled
ceilingward, but his voice was as timid as honey. He flourished his