“Not at all,” said Lady Tranmore, dryly; “she has chosen a Sir Joshua costume I found for her.”

“A vocation missed,” said Kitty, shaking her head.  “She ought to have been a ‘Vestal Virgin’ at least....  Do you know that you look such a duck this afternoon!” The speaker put up two small hands and pulled and patted at the black lace strings of Lady Tranmore’s hat, which were tied under the delicately wrinkled white of her very distinguished chin.

“This hat suits you so—­you are such a grande dame in it.  Ah!  Je t’adore!”

And Kitty softly took the chin aforesaid into her hands, and dropped a kiss on Lady Tranmore’s cheek, which reddened a little under the sudden caress.

“Don’t be a goose, Kitty.”  But Elizabeth Tranmore stooped forward all the same and returned the kiss heartily.  “Now tell me what you’re going to wear at the Parhams’.”

Kitty rose deliberately, went to the bell and rang it.

“It must be quite time for tea.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Kitty.”

“Haven’t I?” The butler entered.  “Tea, please, Wilson, at once.”

“Kitty!—­”

Lady Kitty seated herself defiantly a short distance from her mother-in-law and crossed her hands on her lap.

“I am not going to the Parhams’.”

“Kitty!—­what do you mean?”

“I am not going to the Parhams’,” repeated Kitty, slowly.  “They should behave a little more considerately to me if they want to get me to amuse their guests for them.”

At this moment Margaret French re-entered the room.  Lady Tranmore turned to her with a gesture of distress.

“Oh, Margaret knows,” said Kitty.  “I told her yesterday.”

“The Parhams?” said Margaret.

Kitty nodded.  Margaret paused, with her hand on the back of Lady Tranmore’s chair, and there was a short silence.  Then Lady Tranmore began, in a tone that endeavored not to be too serious: 

“I don’t know how you’re going to get out of it, my dear.  Lady Parham has asked the Princess, first because she wished to come, secondly as an olive-branch to you.  She has taken the greatest pains about the dinner; and afterwards there is to be an evening party to hear you, just the right size, and just the right people.”

“Cela m’est egal,” said Kitty, “par-faite-ment egal!  I am not going.”

“What possible excuse can you invent?”

“I shall have a cold, the most atrocious cold imaginable.  I take to my bed just two hours before it is time to dress.  My letter reaches Lady Parham on the stroke of eight.”

“Kitty, you would be doing a thing perfectly unheard of—­most rude—­most unkind!”

The stiff, slight figure, like a strained wand, did not waver for a moment before the grave indignation of the older woman.

“I should for once be paying off a score that has run on too long.”

“You and Lady Parham had agreed to make friends, and let bygones be bygones.”