She thought she would send round to the bric-à-brac dealers, and tell them to bring her what china and enamels and things they had in their shops for her to look at; little that is worth having ever comes into the market in these days, save when private collections are publicly sold; she knew the Hôtel Drouot and Christie and Manson's too well not to know that; still it would be something to do.
Her hand was on the bell when one of her servants entered. He had a card on a salver.
"Does Madame receive?" he asked, in some trepidation, for do what her servants might they generally did wrong; when they obeyed her she had almost invariably changed her mind before her command could be executed, and when they did not obey her, then the Clairvaux blood, which was crossed with French and Russian, and had been Norman to begin with, made itself felt in her usually tranquil veins.
She glanced at the card. It might be a bric-à-brac dealer's.
On it was written "Duca della Rocca." She paused doubtfully some moments.
