"Oh, no, Your Royal Highness," was Helena's untruthful reply.
"They say that you are a blue-stocking yourself," continued the
Duchess. "Is it true?"
Helena had a feeling as if she were standing nude before her tormentor
and made no reply.
For the second time the ball rolled into the dust. Helena pretended
not to notice it, and bit her lips to hold back the angry tears which
were welling up in her eyes. "Pick up my wool, please," said the
Duchess.
Helena drew herself up, looked the autocrat full in the face and said:
"I won't."
And with these words she turned and fled. The sand gritted under her
feet, and little clouds of dust followed in the wake of her train. She
almost ran down the stone steps and disappeared.
Her career at court was ended; but a sting remained. Helena was made
to feel what it means to be in disgrace, and above all things what it
means to throw up one's post. Society does not approve of changes and
nobody would believe that she had voluntarily renounced the sunshine
of the court. No doubt she had been sent away. Yes, it must be so, she
had been sent away. Never before had she felt so humiliated, so
insulted. It seemed to her that she had lost caste; her relations
treated her with coldness, as if they were afraid that her disgrace
might be infectious; her former friends gave her the cold shoulder
when they met her, and limited their conversation to a minimum.
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