woman moving in those exalted circles whose end would soon be nigh in the better order of things at hand: she was described as the “ex-ambassadress;” and he wound up with the alluring promise to give, next week, full details of those old stories, which were always interesting because they afforded the reader a peep into the depravity of aristocratic society.
Constance, as she read on, felt her heart beating, the blood rushing to her cheeks; her hands trembled, her knees shook, she felt as though she were about to faint. She was growing accustomed to oral slander; but these written, printed articles, which everybody could read, came as a shock to her; and, with eyes starting from their sockets, she read the thing over and over again. She was filled with helpless despair at the thought that such things were being published about her and hers, that next week more things would be printed about her in that libellous paper. She was at her wits’ end what to do, when, vaguely rolling her terrified eyes, she caught sight, among the bills and circulars, of another paper, which said:
“NOTICE ! ! !
“Why not become a subscriber to the
“DWARSKIJKER?
“Terms of subscription:
“50 guilders quarterly, post-free.”The notice was printed in the cynical capitals of blackmail; and she at once understood; she under-
