"I suppose," she murmured to herself, "that I am looking at my best
now. I slept well last night, and a bath gives one colour, and
white is so becoming. Still, I don't know why I failed. She may
be a little better looking, but my figure is as good. I can talk
better, I have learnt how to keep a man from feeling dull, and there
is my reputation. Because I played at war correspondence, wore a
man's clothes, and didn't shriek when I was under fire, people have
chosen to make a heroine of me. That should have counted for
something with him--and it didn't. I could have taken my choice
of any man in London--and I wanted him. And I have failed!"
She threw herself back in her easy-chair and laughed softly.
"Failed! What an ugly word! He is old, and he limps, and I--well,
I was never a very bashful person. He was beautifully polite, but
he wouldn't have anything to say to me."
She began to tear open her letters savagely.
"Well, it is over. If ever anybody speaks to me about it I think
that I shall kill them. That fool Saxe Leinitzer will stroke his
beastly moustache, and smile at me out of the corners of his eyes.
The Dorset woman, too--bah, I shall go away. What is it, Annette?"
"His Highness the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer has called, milady."
"Called! Does he regard this as a call?" she exclaimed, glancing
towards the clock.
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