It was a great tennis rehearsal, and the tea-tables, with their half-filled cups, were deserted by the ladies, and snobs who imitated them. A crowd gathered round to watch Maria Vittoria, who at first played slowly and cautiously, then more rapidly, her blood coursing beneath her brownish, nobly pallid cheeks, her white skirt twisting round the long slender feet, while Katinka Orloff, dexterous but _distrait_, now and then allowed herself to be beaten, resuming the lead for a moment, only to lose it again. With heightened colour and a gleam in her dark, pensive eyes, the Archduchess of Austria exerted herself amidst the complacent murmurs of admiration of the true ladies, and male and female snobs, and with a happy little cry the game ended. Politely Katinka Orloff, who knew the protocol, allowed herself to be beaten. Proud and silent the Archduchess stretched out her hand to the Orloff.
On mountains, houses, and lake, on golf links and tennis-court the grey, purple twilight descended. The white dresses of the lady players seemed to dissolve and become fantastic, and the dark clothes of the men in the distance became shadows. The terrace of the Golf Club was almost deserted, with tables overturned on every side and chairs in disorder. In a corner, separated by a group of people who were just about to depart, Mabel Clarke and Vittorio Lante were saying some subdued words. Nor were they looking at the links which they had never looked at. They troubled not about the company, which troubled not about them. They were unaware of the twilight hour, and did not observe the failing light around them. The sunset shadows descended upon the tennis-court. Players put on their heavy, dark wraps over their whites, stuffed their rackets into cases, and left, silent, tired, but content. Not far-off, in the deserted square, Lucio Sabini and Lilian Temple were taking leave of each other on the return from Sils Maria, without speaking, eye to eye, and hand in hand.
From the 2nd of August the Palace Hotel, which is the supremely characteristic, fashionable, and snobbish hotel of the whole Engadine in general, and the two St. Moritzes in particular (_le Palace_, as the French said, with an accent of reverence as if they were mentioning Olympus, _the Peles_, as the English said rapidly and simply, _the Pelesh_, as the American ladies pronounced it, with rich accent), was filled with its many-souled, multiform, and original _clientèle_, and was not failing its great tradition, that of providing everybody, great or small, cause for gossiping, or mere tittle-tattle. Certainly on some days the second cause, the little one, was lacking, and on others the tittle-tattle; but, nevertheless, the tradition was maintained intact, the causes for daily gossip had scarcely ever been less than two, and each day that waned had always had its great news. Generally, when the weather was very fine, and everyone had left their rooms to sally forth in the open air, if only to descend on foot to the Bad and return by the tram, when even the soft and lazy Egyptian women, with their magnificent black eyes, pale faces, and intensely rich, though sometimes tasteful, dresses, were outside the hotel, although only at the door, making a pretence of coming and going, the daily scandal had been but one, which was born and prospered at lunch, was most robust at dinner, and flourished the rest of the evening, only to perish at night. But on the days of the 9th and 10th of August, on which it had rained, and on the 11th, on which it had snowed slightly, when even the most intrepid pedestrians like the Comtesse Fulvia Gioia and Donna Carlotta Albano had remained at home in the hotel, when neither Madame Lawrence, nor Madame Lesnoy, nor the Marquise d'Allart had been able to play golf, when even all the men had stayed at home, to drag out the time in chatting, smoking, and playing poker, bridge, and billiards, in these three days of closure the scandals had been three new ones every day, after even those of the preceding day had been revived. And every day the clients of the Palace Hotel, each in their own set, when they met in the morning or later at lunch, after some vague words about health or the weather, took up at once the usual, unchangeable question and answer: "_Chère amie, connaissez vous le potin de ce matin?_"--"_Oh, ma chère, mais je ne sais rien du tous, dites-le moi donc._"