When, to Kitty’s sharp regret, the music stopped and the glittering crew of immortals melted into the crowd, she found behind her a row of dancers waiting for the quadrille which was to follow.  This was to consist entirely of English pictures revived—­Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Romney—­and to be danced by those for whose families they had been originally painted.  As she drew back, looking eagerly to right and left, she came across Mary Lyster.  Mary wore her hair high and powdered—­a black silk scarf over white satin, and a blue sash.

“Awfully becoming!” said Kitty, nodding to her.  “Who are you?”

“My great-great aunt!” said Mary, courtesying.  “You, I see, go even farther back.”

“Isn’t it fun?” said Kitty, pausing beside her.  “Have you seen William?  Poor dear! he’s so hot.  How do you do?” This last careless greeting was addressed to Cliffe, whom she now perceived standing behind Mary.

Cliffe bowed stiffly.

“Excuse me.  I did not see you.  I was absorbed in your dress.  You are Artemis, I see—­with additions.”

“Oh!  I am an ‘article de Paris,’” said Kitty.  “But it seems odd that some people should take me for Joan of Arc.”  Then she turned to Mary.  “I think your dress is quite lovely!” she said, in that warm, shy voice she rarely used except for a few intimates, and had never yet been known to waste on Mary.  “Don’t you admire it enormously, Mr. Cliffe?”

“Enormously,” said Cliffe, pulling at his mustache.  “But by now my compliments are stale.”

“Is he cross about William’s letter?” thought Kitty.  “Well, let’s leave them to themselves.”

Then, as she passed him, something in the silent personality of the man arrested her.  She could not forbear a look at him over her shoulder.  “Are you—­Oh! of course, I remember—­” for she had recognized the dress and cap of the Spanish grandee.

Cliffe did not reply for a moment, but the harsh significance of his face revived in her the excitable interest she had felt in him on the day of his luncheon in Hill Street; an interest since effaced and dispersed, under the influence of that serenity and home peace which had shone upon her since that very day.

“I should apologize, no doubt, for not taking your advice,” he said, looking her in the eyes.  Their expression, half bitter, half insolent, reminded her.

“Did I give you any advice?” Kitty wrinkled up her white brows.  “I don’t recollect.”

Mary looked at her sharply, suspiciously.  Kitty, quite conscious of the look, was straightway pricked by an elfish curiosity.  Could she carry him off—­trouble Mary’s possession there and then?  She believed she could.  She was well aware of a certain relation between herself and Cliffe, if, at least, she chose to develop it.  Should she?  Her vanity insisted that Mary could not prevent it.

However, she restrained herself and moved on.  Presently looking back, she saw them still together, Cliffe leaning against the pedestal of a bust, Mary beside him.  There was an animation in her eyes, a rose of pleasure on her cheek which stirred in Kitty a queer, sudden sympathy.  “I am a little beast!” she said to herself.  “Why shouldn’t she be happy?”