or them. "Is it the Princess?"
people asked, and craned their necks to see. It must at least be a
German Serenity--the Margravine of Pimpernikel, the Hereditary Princess
of Weissnichtwo--but more beautiful and graceful than English prejudice
expects German ladies to be. Ah, Italian! that explained
everything--their height, their grace, their dark beauty, their
effective pose. The Latin races alone know how to arrange a spectacle in
that easy way, how to produce themselves so that nobody could be
unimpressed. There was a dramatic pause before them, a hum of excitement
after they had passed. Who were they? Evidently the most distinguished
persons present--the guests of the evening. Sir Tom, uneasy enough, and
looking grave and preoccupied, which was so far from being his usual
aspect, led them into the great drawing-room, where the Duchess, who had
daughters who danced, had taken her place. He did not look as if he
liked it, but the Contessa, for her part, looked round her with a
radiant smile, and bowed very much as the Queen does in a state
ceremonial to the people she knew. She performed a magnificent curtsey,
half irony, half defiance, before the Dowager Lady Randolph, who looked
on at this progress speechless. How Lucy could permit it; how Tom could
have the assurance to do it; occupied the Dowager's thoughts. She had
scarcely self-command to make a stiff sweep of recognition as the
procession passed.

The Duchess was at the upper end of the room, with all her daughters
about her. Besides the younger ones who danced, there were two
countesses supporting their mother. She was the greatest lady present,
and she felt the dignity. But when she perceived the little opening that
took place among the groups about, and, looking up, perceived the
Contessa sweeping along in that regal separation, you might have blown
her Grace away with a breath. Not only was the Duchess the most
important person in the room, but her reception of the newcomer would be
final, a sort of social life or death for the Contessa. But the
supplicant approached with the air of a queen, while the arbiter of fate
grew pale and trembled at the sight. If there was a tremor in her
Grace's breast there was no less a tremor under the Contessa's velvet.
But Madame di Forno-Populo had this great advantage, that she knew
precisely what to do, and the Duchess did not know: she was fully
prepared, and the Duchess taken by surprise: and still more that her
Grace w