“If it means nothing else it means that I’ve been going to and fro the whole blessed afternoon, paying calls in Harmouth for my sins.”

“Poor Kitty.”

“The last three times I paid calls in Harmouth,” said poor Kitty, “I sported a cycling skirt, the blousiest of blouses, and a tam-o’shanter over my left ear.  Of course everybody was in.  So I thought if I went like this—­brand new frock—­swagger hat—­white gloves—­that everybody would be out.”

“And were they?”

“No.  Just like my luck—­they were all—­all in!”

“And yet you have the audacity to come here and ask for tea?”

“For Goodness’ sake, don’t talk of tea.”

“I thought you were so thirsty.”

“So I am.  I thirst for amusement.”

“Kitty!  You’ve been amusing yourself all afternoon—­at other people’s expense.”

“Yes.  It’s cheap—­awfully cheap, but fatiguing.  I don’t want to amuse myself; I want to be amused.”

Mr. Rickman took a longer look at the brilliant apparition.

Now, at a little distance, Miss Palliser passed as merely an ordinary specimen of a brilliant but conventional type.  This effect was an illusion produced by her irreproachably correct attire.  As she drew nearer it became apparent that convention could never have had very much to do with her.  Tailor and milliner were responsible for the general correctness of Miss Palliser’s appearance, Miss Palliser herself for the riot and confusion of the details.  Her coat, flung open, displayed a tangle of laces disposed after her own fancy.  Her skirts, so flawless and sedate, swept as if inspired by the storm of her long-legged impetuous stride.  Under her too, too fashionable hat her brown hair was twisted in a way entirely her own; and fashion had left untouched the wild originality of her face.  Bumpy brows, jutting eyebrows, and nose long in the bridge, wide in the nostril, tilted in a gentle gradient; a wide full-lipped nervous mouth, and no chin to speak of.  A thin face lit by restless greenish eyes; stag-like, dog-like, humorous and alert.

Miss Palliser sent the gaze of those eyes round the room.  The hungry, Satanic humour in them roved, seeking what it might devour.  It fell upon Mr. Rickman.

“What have you got there?”

Miss Harden’s reply was inaudible.

“Let me in.  I want to look at it.”

“Don’t, Kitty.”  Apparently an explanation followed from Miss Harden.  It also was inaudible.

“Lu-chee-a.!  Where is Miss Roots, B.A.?”

“Please, please, Kitty.  Do go into the morning-room.”

This painful scene was cut short by Robert, who announced that tea was served.

“Oh joy!” said Miss Palliser, and disappeared.

Lucia, following, found her examining the tea-tray.

“Only two cups,” said Miss Palliser.  “Isn’t it going to get any tea then?”

“Isn’t what going to get any tea?”