She lay for a few moments, gazing at the sun-bright ceiling. The Comte was calling for her at eleven. The little French maid who did tasks too menial for Maria, came in with a cup of morning chocolate. She sipped it, wondering yet again why the Princess had countenanced such an expedition. She achieved no answer. The Comte had made his request, been accepted, and now she had no alternative but to make herself ready for his arrival. The Princess was still asleep and would be until long after the Comte had called for her. Reluctantly she dressed in a gown of watered green silk that emphasised the colour of her eyes. The neckline was demurely high, small pearl buttons running from the base of her throat to her tiny waist. Her nonsense of a hat, with a wisp of veiling and a feather was perched on the top of her abundantly waving hair, the ringlets tamed into a smooth, upsweeping chignon. White net gloves covered her hands. Her parasol was edged with lace. She gazed at herself in the mirror and knew that anyone seeing her would assume her to be a lady of quality.
