The design was taking shape when young Strangeways, who was willing to exchange chaff with Gussie Moy, but was gentleman enough to feel the indecorum of the whole thing, moved across to his sister, and muttered, “I say, Con, they are getting up that stupid trick of election of a queen of beauty.  Does Lady Tyrrell know it?”

“Wouldn’t it be rather fun?”

“Horrid bad form, downright impudence.  Mother would squash it at once.  Go and warn one of them,” signing with his head.

Constance made her way to Eleonora, who had already been perplexed and angered by more than one critical stare, as one and another man loitered past and gazed intrepidly at her.  She hurried at once to her sister, who was sitting passively behind her counter as if wearied out, and who would not be stirred to interference.  “Never mind, Lenore, it can’t be helped.  It is all for the cause, and to stop it would be worse taste, fitting on the cap as an acknowledged beauty, and to that I’m not equal.”

“It is an insult.”

“Never fear, they’ll never choose you while you look so forbidding, though perhaps it is rather becoming.  They have not the taste.”

Eleonora said no more, but went over to the window where Raymond was keeping his guard, with his old-fashioned sense of protection.  She had no sooner told him than he started into incredulous indignation, in which he was joined by his wife who only wished him to dash forward to prevent the scheme before he would believe it real.

However, when the ballot-box came his way, and a simpering youth presented him with a card, begging for his opinion, he spoke so as to be heard by all, “No, thank you, sir.  I am requested by the ladies present to state that such competition was never contemplated by their committee and would be repugnant to all their sentiments.  They beg that the election may be at once dropped and the money returned.”

Mr. Charnock Poynsett had a weight that no one resisted.  There was a moment’s silence, a little murmur, apologetic and remonstrant, but the deed was done.

Only a clear voice, with the thrillings of disappointed vanity and exultation scarcely disguised by a laugh, was heard saying, louder than the owner knew, “Oh, of course Mr. Charnock Poynsett spoiled sport.  It would have been awkward between his wife and his old flame.”

“For shame, Gussie,” hushed Mrs. Duncombe, “they’ll hear.”

“I don’t care!  Let them!  Stuck-up people!”

Whoever heard, Cecil Charnock Poynsett did, and felt as if the ground were giving way with her.

CHAPTER XXIV The Lady Green Mantle

The night, just like the night before,
   In terrors passed away,
Nor did the demons vanish thence
   Before the dawn of day.—­MOORE