All the same, Meadows was stirred to most unwonted efforts.  He proved to be an antagonist worth her steel; and Doris’s heart swelled with secret pride as she saw how all the other voices died down, how more and more people came up to listen, even the young men and maidens,—­throwing themselves on the grass, around the two disputants.  Finally Lady Dunstable carried off the honours.  Had she not seen Lord Beaconsfield twice during the fatal week of his last general election, when England turned against him, when his great rival triumphed, and all was lost?  Had he not talked to her, as great men will talk to the young and charming women whose flatteries soften their defeats; so that, from the wings, she had seen almost the last of that well-graced actor, caught his last gestures and some of his last words?

“Brava, brava!” said Meadows, when the story ceased, although it had been intended to upset one of his own most brilliant generalisations; and a sound of clapping hands went round the circle.  Lady Dunstable, a little flushed and panting, smiled and was silent.  Meadows, meanwhile, was thinking—­“How often has she told that tale?  She has it by heart.  Every touch in it has been sharpened a dozen times.  All the same—­a wonderful performance!”

Lord Dunstable, meanwhile, sat absolutely silent, his hat on the back of his head, his attention fixed on his wife.  As the group broke up, and the chairs were pushed back, he said in Doris’s ear—­“Isn’t she an awfully clever woman, my wife?”

Before Doris could answer, she heard Lady Dunstable carelessly—­but none the less peremptorily—­inviting her women guests to see their rooms.  Doris walked by her hostess’s side towards the house.  Every trace of animation and charm had now vanished from that lady’s manner.  She was as languid and monosyllabic as before, and Doris could only feel once again that while her clever husband was an eagerly welcomed guest, she herself could only expect to reckon as his appendage—­a piece of family luggage.

Lady Dunstable threw open the door of a spacious bedroom.  “No doubt you will wish to rest till dinner,” she said, severely.  “And of course your maid will ask for what she wants.”  At the word “maid,” did Doris dream it, or was there a satiric gleam in the hard black eyes?  “Pretender,” it seemed to say—­and Doris’s conscience admitted the charge.

And indeed the door had no sooner closed on Lady Dunstable before an agitated knock announced Jane—­in tears.

She stood opposite her mistress in desperation.

“Please, ma’am—­I’ll have to have an evening dress—­or I can’t go in to supper!”

“What on earth do you mean?” said Doris, staring at her.

“Every maid in this ’ouse, ma’am, ’as got to dress for supper.  The maids go in the ‘ousekeeper’s room, an’ they’ve all on ’em got dresses V-shaped, or cut square, or something.  This black dress, ma’am, won’t do at all.  So I can’t have no supper.  I couldn’t dream, ma’am, of goin’ in different to the others!”