“We don’t ask the doctor to our tea,” Valentine replied, with a sudden coldness.

The invitation was conveyed to the lady of the feathers, and in due course an answer was received, a mosaic of misspelling and obvious gratification.

“My dear,” ran the missive, “I will com.  I shall be pleased to see you agane, but I thorght I shoold not.  Men say—­oh yes, I shall com back—­but not many does, and I thorght praps you was like the all the rest.  Your friend is very good to assk me, and I am,

“Yr loving,
“Cuckoo.”

Valentine read the letter without comment and ordered an elaborate tea.  Julian read it, and wondered whether he was a fool because he felt touched by the misspelt words, as he had sometimes felt touched when he saw some very poor woman attired in her ridiculous “best” clothes.

The tea-time had been fixed for five o’clock, and Julian intended, of course, to be in Victoria Street with Valentine to receive the expected guest, but Cuckoo Bright threw his polite plans out of gear, and Valentine was alone when, at half-past four, the electric bell rang, and, a moment later, Wade solemnly showed into the drawing-room a striking vision, such as had never “burst into that silent sea” of artistic repose and refinement before.

The lady undoubtedly wore what seemed to be her one hat, and the effect of it, at all times remarkable, was amazingly heightened by its proximity to the quiet and beautiful surroundings of the room.  As a rule, it merely cried out.  Now it seemed absolutely to yell bank-holiday vulgarity and impropriety at the silent pictures.  But her gown decidedly exceeded it in uproar, being of the very loudest scarlet hue, with large black lozenges scattered liberally over it.  From her rather narrow shoulders depended a black cape, whose silk foundation was suffocated with bugles.  A shrill scent of cherry-blossom ran with her like a crowd, and in her hand she carried an umbrella and a plush bag with a steel snap.  Her face, in the midst of this whirlpool of finery, peeped out anxiously, covered as it was with a smear of paint and powder, and when she saw Valentine standing alone to receive her, her nervous eyes ranged uncomfortably about in obvious quest of an acquaintance and protector.

“I am sorry that Mr. Addison has not come yet,” Valentine said, holding out his hand.  “I expect him every minute.  Won’t you come and sit down?”

An ironical courtesy vibrated in his voice.  The lady grew more obviously nervous.  She looked at Valentine through the veil which was drawn tightly across her face.  His appearance seemed to carry awe into her heart, for she stood staring and attempted no reply, allowing him to take her hand without either protest or response.

“Won’t you sit down?” he repeated, smiling at her with humourous contemplation of her awkward distress.

The lady abruptly sat down on a sofa.

“Allow me to put a cushion at your back,” Valentine said.  And he passed behind her to do so.  But she quickly shifted round, almost as if in fear, and faced him as he stood with his hand on the back of the sofa.