There were half a dozen people in the room when Beverly entered
eagerly. She was panting with excitement. Of all the rooms in the grim
old castle, the boudoir of the princess was the most famously
attractive. It was really her home, the exquisite abiding place of an
exquisite creature. To lounge on her divans, to loll in the chairs, to
glide through her priceless rugs was the acme of indolent pleasure. Few
were they who enjoyed the privileges of "Little Heaven," as Harry
Anguish had christened it on one memorable night, long before the
princess was Mrs. Grenfall Lorry.
"_Now_, how do you feel?" cried the flushed American girl, pausing
in the door to point an impressive finger at the princess, who was lying
back in a huge chair, the picture of distress and annoyance.
"I shall never be able to look that man in the face again," came
dolefully from Yetive's humbled lips. Dagmar was all smiles and in the
fittest of humors. She was the kind of a culprit who loves the
punishment because of the crime.
"Wasn't it ridiculous, and wasn't it just too lovely?" she cried.
"It was extremely theatrical," agreed Beverly, seating herself on the
arm of Yetive's chair and throwing a warm arm around her neck. "Have you
all heard about it?" she demanded, naively, turning to the others, who
unquestionably had had a jumbled account of the performance.
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