“I’m getting on now,” she reflected, “and if I’m not presented soon, I never will be....”
She raised imploring eyes to the mural imagery--to the “Cleopatra couchant,” to the “Arrival of Anthony,” to the “Sphinx,” to the “Temple of Ra,” as though seeking inspiration: “Ah my God!” she groaned.
But Madame Wetme’s religion, her cruel God, was the _Chic_: The God Chic.
The sound of music from below reached her faintly. There was not a better orchestra (even at the Palace) than that which discoursed at the Café Cleopatra--and they played, the thought had sometimes pleased her, the same identical tunes!
“Does it say when?” she murmured, reopening the gazette. No: But it would be “before” the Court left.... And when would that be?
“I have good grounds for believing,” she continued to read: “that in order to meet his creditors, the Duke of Varna is selling a large portion of his country estate.”
If it were true ... Madame Wetme’s eyes rested in speculation on the Oleanders in the great flower-tubs before the Café, if it were true, why the Varnas must be desperate, and the Duchess ready to do anything. “Anything--for remuneration,” she murmured, rising and going towards a table usually used for correspondence. And seating herself with a look of decision, she opened a leather writing-pad, full of crab-coloured ink-marked blotting paper.
In the fan-shaped mirror above the writing-table she could see herself in fancy, all veils and aigrettes, as she would be on “the day” when coiffed by Ernst.
“Among a bevy of charming débutantes, no one looked more striking than Madame Wetme, who was presented by the Duchess of Varna.” Being a client of the house (with an unpaid bill) she could _dictate_ to Eva.... But first, of course, she must secure the Duchess. And taking up her pen she wrote: “Madame Wetme would give the Duchess of Varna fifty thousand crowns to introduce her at Court.” A trifle terse perhaps?? Madame Wetme considered. How if the Duchess should take offence.... It was just conceivable! And besides, by specifying no fixed sum, she might be got for less.
“Something more mysterious, more delicate in style....” Madame Wetme murmured with a sigh, beginning the letter anew:
“If the Duchess of Varna will call on Madame Wetme this afternoon, about five, and partake of a cup of tea, she will hear of something _to her advantage_.”