embroidery, canvas and whalebone; the granite paving blocks of the Place Vendôme echoed under the rapid feet of models and saleswomen and errand-runners; mothers and daughters stuck their heads together—they consulted—they sought the advice of ancient dowagers versed in marital and premarital warfare—and still more invitations were heaped on the prince s breakfast table with every morning mail.
But the crested notes were acknowledged by the Russian s secretary, who read them, threw them away, while regretting "the inability of Monsieur le Prince to accept mad&me's so charming hospitality"—and then the real-estate brokers came to the rescue of Mme. Gossip, though they only succeeded in deepening the mystery which enveloped the prince.
It became known that he had sent for MM, Dufour and Cazanet, a reputable and well-known firm of real-estate men who in the past had sold palaces and châteaux to Chicago pork kings, Welsh coal barons, and Oriental potentates. They called on Narodkine—flattered, delighted, expectant; and they left—sadder, but no wiser.
For the prince refused to buy the sort of show
