time;
and they were chiefly related to her in some way or other, as all
semi-royal personages, and German dukes and grand-dukes and mediatised
princes, and princes of the Holy Empire, seemed to be. Now all these
great people seemed to know Cecilia's future husband intimately and
liked him, and called him "Guido"; and he called some of them by their
first names, and was evidently not the least in awe of any of them. They
were his relations, as the Princess was, and they acknowledged him; and
they were inclined to be affectionate relatives, because he had never
asked any of them for anything, and differed from most of them in never
having done anything too scandalous to be mentioned. They were his
family, for his mother had been an only child; and Princess Anatolie,
who was distinctly a snob in soul, in spite of her royal blood, took
care that the good Countess Fortiguerra should know exactly how matters
stood, and that her daughter ought to be thankful that she was to marry
among the exalted ones of the earth--at any price.

Now, when she had been an ambassadress, the Countess had met two or
three of those people, and had been accustomed to look upon them as
personages whom the Embassy entertained in state, one at a time, when
they condescended to accept an invitation, but who lived in a region of
their own, which was often, and perhaps fortunately so, beyond the
experience of ordinary society. She was therefore really pleased and
flattered to find herself in their intimacy and to hear what they had to
say when they talked without restraint. Her position was certainly very
good already, but there was no denying that her daughter's marriage
would make it a privileged one.

In the first place, Guido and Cecilia were clearly expected to visit
some of his relations during their wedding trip and afterwards, and at
some future time the Countess would go with them and see wonderful
castles and palaces she had heard of from her childhood. That would be
delightful, she thought, and the excellent Baron Goldbirn of Vienna
would die of envy. Not that she wished him to die of envy, nor of
anything else; she merely thought of his feelings.

Then--and perhaps that was what gave her the most real
satisfaction--Cecilia was to take the place for which her beauty and her
talents had destined her, but which her birth had not given her. The
mother's heart was filled with affectionate pride when she realised that
the marvel she had brough