a November afternoon, and pitch dark, but of course it was morning still as nobody had dined, the advent of soup and sherry bringing the only meridian recognised in society—the Lady Hilda refreshed with a cup of tea from the samovar of her friend the Princess Olga Schouvaloff, who came yearly to her palace in the historical river-street of historical Floralia, and having been assured by Princess Olga, that if they kept quite amongst themselves, and never knew anybody else but the Floralian Russian and German nobility, and steadfastly refused to allow anybody else to be presented to them, Floralia was bearable—nay, even really agreeable,—she got into her coupé, and was driven through the gloom to her hotel.
Her head servant made her two announcements:—Madame de Caviare had arrived that morning, and hoped to see her before dinner.
Lady Hilda's brows frowned a little.
The Duca della Rocca had sent these flowers.
Lady Hilda's eyes smiled a little.
They were only some cyclamens fresh from the country, in moss. She had regretted to him
