In the raised seats near the High Council, Mrs.Hastings and Mr.Frothingham leaned to wave a sustaining greeting.

Until that high moment Mrs.Medora Hastings had been by no means certain that Olivia would appear at all, though she openly nourished the hope that "everything would go off smoothly." ("I don't care much for foreigners and never have," she confided to Mr.Frothingham, "still, I was thinking while I was at breakfast, after all, to the prince _we are_ the foreigners.

There is something in that, don't you think?
And then the dear prince--he is so very metaphysical!") Upon the beetling throne Olivia took her place, and her women sank about her like tiers of sunset clouds.

She was so little and so beautiful and so unconsciously appealing that when Prince Tabnit and Cassyrus and the rest of the court entered, it is doubtful if an eye left Olivia, to homage them.

But Prince Tabnit was the last to note that, for he saw only Olivia; and the world--the world was an intaglio of his own designing.
With due magnificence the preliminary ceremonies of the coronation proceeded--musty necessities, like oaths and historical truths, being mingled with the most delicate observances, such as the naming of the former princesses of the island, from Adija, daughter of King Abibaal, to Olivia, daughter of King Otho; and such as counting the clouds for the misfortunes of the regime.