But Kitty’s dress was of some white silky material; and it displayed her slender throat and some portion of her thin white arms.  The Dean’s wife, Mrs. Winston, as she secretly studied it, felt an inward satisfaction; for here at last was one of those gowns she had once or twice gazed on with a covetous awe in the shop-windows of the Rue de la Paix, brought down to earth, and clothing a simple mortal.  They were then real, and they could be worn by real women; which till now the Dean’s wife had scarcely believed.

Alack! how becoming were these concoctions to minxes with fair hair and sylphlike frames!  Kitty was radiant, triumphant; and Ashe was certain that Lady Grosville knew it, however she might barricade herself behind the Times.  The girl’s slim fingers gesticulated in aid of her tongue; one tiny foot swung lightly over the other; the glistening folds of the silk wrapped her in a shimmering whiteness, above which the fair head—­negligently thrown back—­shone out on a red background, made by the velvet chair in which she sat.

The Dean was placed close beside her, and was clearly enjoying himself enormously.  And in front of her, absorbed in her, engaged, indeed, in hot and furious debate with her, stood the great man who had just arrived.

“How do you do, Cliffe?” said Ashe, as he approached.

Geoffrey Cliffe turned sharply, and a perfunctory greeting passed between the two men.

“When did you arrive?” said Ashe, as he threw himself into an arm-chair.

“Last Tuesday.  But that don’t matter,” said Cliffe, impatiently—­“nothing matters—­except that I must somehow defeat Lady Kitty!”

And he stood, looking down upon the girl in front of him, his hands on his sides, his queer countenance twitching with suppressed laughter.  An odd figure, tall, spare, loosely jointed, surmounted by a pale parchment face, which showed a somewhat protruding chin, a long and delicate nose, and fine brows under a strange overhanging mass of fair hair.  He had the dissipated, battered look of certain Vandyck cavaliers, and certainly no handsomeness of any accepted kind.  But as Ashe well knew, the aspect and personality of Geoffrey Cliffe possessed for innumerable men and women, in English “society” and out of it, a fascination it was easier to laugh at than to explain.

Lady Kitty had eyes certainly for no one else.  When he spoke of “defeating” her, she laughed her defiance, and a glance of battle passed between her and Cliffe.  Cliffe, still holding her with his look, considered what new ground to break.

“What is the subject?” said Ashe.

“That men are vainer than women,” said Kitty.  “It’s so true, it’s hardly worth saying—­isn’t it?  Mr. Cliffe talks nonsense about our love of clothes—­and of being admired.  As if that were vanity!  Of course it’s only our sense of duty.”

“Duty?” cried Cliffe, twisting his mustache.  “To whom?”