selves darkly against the steel-blue sky of the night.
The Archduchess had been spending a long day in the galleries, studying art under the guidance of the handsome chamberlain; she was hungry, happy, and full of the heartiest spirits; she was a very merry and good-natured person, about five-and-forty years old, fat and fair, very badly dressed, and very agreeable, with a frank laugh, and a strong love of humour; she had had more escapades than any princess in Europe, and smoked more cigars than a French newspaper writer, and had married more daughters to German cousins than anybody else in the Almanac de Gotha.
Had she been any lesser being, Society would have turned its back on her; but, being who she was, her nod was elevation, and her cigar-ash honour,—and, to do her justice, she was one of the most amiable creatures in all creation.
"Ma chère, you are lovelier than ever!—and how do you like this place?—and is the dear little pug alive? I lost my sweet Zaliote of asthma in Palermo," said the Archduchess, wel-
