in her dress, Mrs. Barton called on her daughter, and, slipping under the raised arms, they found themselves suddenly in a square, sombre room, full of a rich, brown twilight.  In one corner there was a bureau, where an attendant served out blank cards; in another the white plumes nodded against the red glare that came from the throne-room, whence Liddell’s band was heard playing waltz tunes, and the stentorian tones of the Chamberlain’s voice called the ladies’ names.

‘Have you got your cards?’ said Mrs. Barton.

‘I have got mine,’ said Olive.

‘And I have got mine,’ said Alice.

’Well, you know what to do?  You give your card to the aide-de-camp, he passes it on and spreads out your train, and you walk right up to His Excellency; he kisses you on both cheeks, you curtsy, and, at the far door, two aides-de-camp pick up your train and place it on your arm.’

The girls continued to advance, experiencing the while the nerve atrophy, the systolic emotion of communicants, who, when the bell rings, approach the altar-rails to receive God within their mouths.

The massive, the low-hanging, the opulently twisted gold candelabra, the smooth lustre of the marble columns are evocative of the persuasive grandeur of a cathedral; and, deep in the darkness of the pen, a vast congregation of peeresses and judges watch the ceremony in devout collectiveness.  How symmetrical is the place!  A red, a well-trimmed bouquet of guardsmen has been set in the middle of the Turkey carpet; around the throne a semicircle of red coats has been drawn, and above it flow the veils, the tulle, the skirts of the ladies-of-honour—­they seem like white clouds dreaming on a bank of scarlet poppies—­and the long sad legs, clad in maroon-coloured breeches, is the Lord-Lieutenant, the teeth and the diamonds on his right is Her Excellency.  And now a lingering survival of the terrible Droit de Seigneur—­diminished and attenuated, but still circulating through our modern years—­this ceremony, a pale ghost of its former self, is performed; and, having received a kiss on either cheek, the debutantes are free to seek their bridal beds in Patrick’s Hall.

‘Miss Olive Barton, presented by Mrs. Barton!’ shouted the Chamberlain.

Olive abandoned her train to the aides-de-camp; she saw their bent backs, felt their nimble fingers exhibiting this dress whereon Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Symond had for days been expending all the poetry of their natures.  What white wonder, what manifold marvel of art!  Dress of snow satin, skirt quite plain in front.  Bodice and train of white poplin; the latter wrought with patterns representing night and morning:  a morning made of silver leaves with silver birds fluttering through leafy trees, butterflies sporting among them, and over all a sunrise worked in gold and silver thread; then on the left side the same sun sank amid rosy clouds, and there butterflies slept with folded wing,