garment of diaphanous
texture.

When Prince George heard that she had a lover, he went to Darmstadt to
"correct her," as he expressed himself with much self-satisfaction.

But Victoria Melita proved to him that English princesses are made of
sterner stuff than the German variety.

"I will have none of your meddling," said the bride of two years.

"I came here to make peace between you people."

"Play the dove to your daughter-in-law," quoth the Grand-duchess. "I
hear you are fighting like Kilkenny cats."

"You are impertinent, Madame," cried George furiously.

"You will oblige me by showing this man the door," demanded Victoria
Melita, addressing her husband.

"Not until I have explained the situation," answered Ernest Ludwig
quietly. "Listen, then, cousin! While I am by principle opposed to
divorce, I won't force my wife to live with me."

"And now be so kind as to withdraw," said Victoria Melita, opening the
door for Prince George. Poor as I am, I would have given five thousand
marks to have seen the meddling pest exit in that fashion, and I love
Victoria Melita for the spirit she displayed, even if I don't approve of
her _liaisons_.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, _February 10, 1896_.

A mighty virtuous remark escaped me on the last page, and I almost feel
like asking the Grand-duchess's pardon, for, whatever I am, I'm no
hypocrite. Melita is said to have a lover; I have an admirer. Up to now
I don't care a rap for him, but who knows?

It's Count Bielsk of the Roumanian Embassy. I can't remember whether he
was ever introduced to me. Most probably he was, but I forgot.

An elegant fellow--always looks as if he stepped out of a tailor's shop
in Piccadilly.

Every single night I go to the theatre the Count occupies an orchestra
chair that affords the best possible view of the royal box. It happened
too often and too persistently to be accidental. Moreover, I observe
that he pays no attention to the play. He has eyes for me only.

Impertinence? Decidedly, but I can't be angry with the fellow. On the
contrary, I am flattered, and the kind face and the fine eyes he's got!

Poor stupid Tisch doesn't approve of the theatre, of course, and usually
begs to be excused on the plea of religious duties. "What a sinner you
must be," I sometimes say, "when you are obliged to forever bother God
with prayers."

The Schoenberg I send into the next box, for she is no spy and never
watches m