Mrs. Courteen scarcely believed Betty spoke the truth. Never could she
remember such a gigantick wave of elation as swept over her on receipt
of the Beau's letter. Yet, without a doubt, it was true. There was the
royal notepaper and, as she reverently examined the outside, there was
the river of the house of Ripple meandering in regular curves through
meadows of sealing-wax. She marked the colour--lilac--as if faintly to
adumbrate the imperial purple of Rome. Moreover, the sprinkled sand, a
few particles of which still adhered to the surface, smelt of Courts.
There were years of authority between the lines of the graceful
superscription; the very "C" of the Crescent bellied in the breeze of
Royal favour. Major Tarry and Mr. Moon regarded her with an expression
compounded of jealousy and respect. Who was this woman, this
correspondent with monarchs?
"Pray excuse me, neighbours," murmured the widow, sinking into a chair.
The seal crackled musically as with smooth forefinger and shapely thumb
she gently withdrew the diaphanous paper from its waxen prison; so must
the golden bough have sounded to the touch of AEneas.