We had rather expected to be presented to Queen Marie with some semblance of formality in one of the reception rooms of the chateau, but she sent word by her lady-in-waiting that she would receive us in the gardens.  A few minutes later she came swinging toward us across a great stretch of rolling lawn, a splendid figure of a woman, dressed in a magnificent native costume of white and silver, a white scarf partially concealing her masses of tawny hair, a long-bladed poniard in a silver sheath hanging from her girdle.  At her heels were a dozen Russian wolf hounds, the gift, so she told me, of the Grand Duke Nicholas, the former commander-in-chief of the Russian armies.  I have seen many queens, but I have never seen one who so completely meets the popular conception of what a queen should look like as Marie of Rumania.  Though in the middle forties, her complexion is so faultless, her physique so superb, her presence so commanding that, were she utterly unknown, she would still be a center of attraction in any assemblage.  Had she not been born to a crown she would almost certainly have made a great name for herself, probably as an actress.  She paints exceptionally well and has written several successful books and stories, thereby following the example of her famous predecessor on the Rumanian throne, Queen Elizabeth, better known as Carmen Sylva.  She speaks English like an Englishwoman, as well she may, for she is a granddaughter of Queen Victoria.  She is also a descendant of the Romanoffs, for one of her grandfathers was Alexander III of Russia.  In her manner she is more simple and democratic than many American women that I know, her poise and simplicity being in striking contrast to the manners of two of my countrywomen who had spent the night preceding our arrival at the castle and who were manifestly much impressed by this contact with the Lord’s Anointed.  When luncheon was announced her second daughter, Princess Marie, had not put in an appearance.  But, instead of despatching the major domo to inform her Royal Highness that the meal was served, the Queen stepped to the foot of the great staircase and called, “Hurry up, Mignon.  You’re keeping us all waiting,” whereupon a voice replied from the upper regions, “All right, mamma.  I’ll be down in a minute.”  Not much like the picture of palace life that the novelists and the motion-picture playwrights give us, is it?  I might add that the Queen commonly refers to the plump young princess as “Fatty,” a nickname which she hardly deserves, however.  In her conversations with me the Queen was at times almost disconcertingly frank.  “Royalty is going out of fashion,” she remarked on one occasion, “but I like my job and I’m going to do everything I can to keep it.”  To Mrs. Powell she said, “I have beauty, intelligence and executive ability.  I would be successful in life if I were not a queen.”

Unlike many persons who occupy exalted positions, she has a real sense of humor.