of mysterious importance about the great affairs of kings and countries, affairs which were settled by just two or three supermen in Berlin, London or St. Petersburg, while most of the others, the exquisites, gave weighty decisions on a matter of ceremony, a visit, a card with or without the corner turned down, a little matter of etiquette, trivialities around which their whole existence and that of their wives revolved. She, too, had given weighty decisions in all these matters: a three weeks’ mourning for this royal highness; an eight days’ mourning—very light, with a touch of white—for that royal highness; and her life was so full of all this ado about nothing that she had hardly had time to reflect. In Rome, as the wife of the Netherlands minister, with some pretensions to lead the cosmopolitan circle which here and there touched upon that of the exclusive Roman aristocracy, she was so busy with her hairdresser and her tailor, with shopping in the morning, half-a-dozen visits and a charity matinée in the afternoon, a Court ball at night, followed by a little supper: so busy that it affected her health and often left her tired and pale. But she had grudged none of it, so long as she saw her name mentioned with the others in the newspapers. And, when, in the midst of all this empty glamour, in the midst of all this empty bustle, she met Van der Welcke, the new young secretary of the Netherlands Legation, and, of course, saw him nearly every day, she had allowed him to make love to her, just because a couple of her friends declared that he was making love to her and
