The sheep, however, was still gambolling at large.  Occasionally a guest appeared who proved it.  For instance, at a certain tumultuous entrance, billowing skirts, vast hat, and high-pitched voice all combining in the effect, Madame d’Estrees flushed violently, and Warington’s stiffness redoubled.  On the threshold stood the young actress, Mademoiselle Ricci, a Marseillaise, half French, half Italian, who was at the moment the talk of Venice.  Why, would take too long to tell.  It was by no means mostly due to her talent, which, however, was displayed at the Apollo theatre two or three times a week, and was no doubt considerable.  She was a flamboyant lady, with astonishing black eyes, a too transparent white dress, over which was slung a small black mantilla, a scarlet hat and parasol, and a startling fan of the same color.  Both before and after her greeting of Madame d’Estrees—­whom she called her “cherie” and her “belle Marguerite”—­she created a whirlwind in the salon.  She was noisy, rude, and false; it could only be said on the other side that she was handsome—­for those who admired the kind of thing; and famous—­more or less.  The intimacy of the party was broken up by her, for wherever she was she brought uproar, and it was impossible to forget her.  And this uneasy attention which she compelled was at its height when the door was once more thrown open for the entrance of Lady Kitty Ashe.

“Ah, my darling Kitty!” cried Madame d’Estrees, rising in a soft enthusiasm.

Kitty came in slowly, holding herself very erect, a delicate and distinguished figure, in her deep mourning.  She frowned as she saw the crowd in the room.

“I’ll come another time!” she said, hastily, to her mother, beginning to retreat.

“Oh, Kitty!” cried Madame d’Estrees, in distress, holding her fast.

At that moment Harman, who was watching them both with keenness, saw that Kitty had perceived Mademoiselle Ricci.  The actress had paused in her chatter to stare at the new-comer.  She sat fronting the entrance, her head insolently thrown back, knees crossed, a cigarette poised in the plump and dimpled hand.

A start ran through Kitty’s small person.  She allowed her mother to lead her in and introduce her to Donna Laura.

“Ah-ha, my lady!” said Harman, to himself.  “Are you, perhaps, interested in the Ricci?  Is it possible even that you have seen her before?”

Kitty, however, betrayed herself to no one else.  To other people it was only evident that she did not mean to be introduced to the actress.  She pointedly and sharply avoided it.  This was interpreted as aristocratic hauteur, and did her no harm.  On the contrary, she was soon chattering French with a group of diplomats, and the centre of the most animated group in the room.  All the new-comers who could attached themselves to it, and the actress found herself presently almost deserted.  She put up her eye-glass, studied Kitty impertinently, and asked a man sitting near her for the name of the strange lady.