illant; the large heavy shoulders full of vulgar
madder tints, coarse, strawberry-colour, enormous as a Paul Neron;
clustering white shoulders, grouped like the blossoms of an Aimee Vibert
Scandens, and, just in front of me, under my eyes, the flowery, the
voluptuous, the statuesque shoulders of a tall blonde woman of thirty,
whose flesh is full of the exquisite peach-like tones of a Mademoiselle
Eugene Verdier, blooming in all its pride of summer loveliness.

To make way for this enormous crowd, the Louis XV. sofas and arm-chairs
had been pushed against the walls, and an hour passed wearily, in all
its natural impudence, in this beautiful drawing-room, the brain aching
with dusty odour of poudre de riz, and the many acidities of evaporating
perfume; the sugary sweetness of the blondes, the salt flavours of the
brunettes, and this allegro movement of odours was interrupted suddenly
by the garlicky andante, deep as the pedal notes of an organ, that the
perspiring armpits of a fat chaperon exhaled slowly.

At last there was a move forwards, and a sigh of relief, a grunt of
satisfaction, broke from the oppressed creatures; but a line of
guardsmen was pressing from behind, and the women were thrown hither and
thither into the arms and on to the backs of soldiers, police officers,
county inspectors, and Castle underlings. Now a lady turns pale, and
whispers to her husband that she is going to faint; now a young girl's
petticoats have become entangled in the moving mass of legs! She cries
aloud for help; her brother expostulates with those around. He is
scarcely heeded. And the struggle grows still more violent when it
becomes evident that the guardsmen are about to bring down the bar; and,
begging a florid-faced attorney to unloose his sword, which had become
entangled in her dress, Mrs. Barton called on her daughter, and,
slipping under the raised arms, they found themselves suddenly in a
square, sombre room, full of a rich, brown twilight. In one corner there
was a bureau, where an attendant served out blank cards; in another the
white plumes nodded against the red glare that came from the
throne-room, whence Liddell's band was heard playing waltz tunes, and
the stentorian tones of the Chamberlain's voice called the ladies'
names.

'Have you got your cards?' said Mrs. Barton.

'I have got mine,' said Olive.

'And I have got mine,' said Alice.

'Well, you know what to do? You give your card to the aide-de-camp, he
pa