and there birds roosted on bending boughs; veils of silver tissue softened the edges of the train, silver stars gleamed in the corn-coloured hair, the long hands, gloved with white undressed kid, carried a silver fan; she was adorably beautiful and adorably pale, and she floated through the red glare, along the scarlet line, to the weary-looking man in maroon breeches, like some wonderful white bird of downy plumage.  He kissed her on both cheeks; and she passed away to the farther door, where her train was caught up and handed to her by two aides-de-camp.  He had seemed to salute her with deference and warmth; his kiss was more than ceremonial, and eager looks passed between the ladies-of-honour standing on the estrade; the great bouquet of red-coats placed in the middle of the floor, animated by one desire, turned its sixteen heads to gaze after the wonderful vision of blonde beauty that had come—­that had gone.  Mrs. Barton experienced an instant thrill of triumph, and advanced into the throne.

In the composition of her dress she had given range to her somewhat florid taste.  The front was brocade, laid upon a ground of grey-pink, shot with orange, and the effect was such as is seen when the sun hangs behind a lowering grey cloud, tinged with pink.  On this were wonderful soft-coloured flowers, yellow melting into pink, green fading to madder-like tints.  The bodice and the train were of gold-brown velvet that matched the gold-brown of the hair.  Mrs. Barton was transformed from the usual Romney portrait to one by Sir Peter Lely; and when she made her curtsy, Her Excellency’s face contracted, and the ladies-of-honour whispered:  ’The harm she does her daughters . . .  I wonder . . .’

‘Miss Violet Scully, presented by Mrs. Scully,’ shouted the Chamberlain.

Now there was an admixture of curiosity in the admiration accorded to Violet.  Hers was not the plain appealing of Olive’s Greek statue-like beauty; it was rather the hectic erethism of painters and sculptors in a period preceding the apogee of an art.  She was a statuette in biscuit after a design by Andrea Mantegna.  But the traces of this exquisite atavism were now almost concealed in the supreme modernity of her attire.  From the tiny waist trailed yards of white faille, trimmed with tulle ruchings, frecked as a meadow with faintly-tinted daisies; the hips were engarlanded with daisies, and the flowers melted and bloomed amid snows of faille and tulle.

The Lord-Lieutenant leaned forward to kiss her, but at that moment of his kiss the thunder crashed so loudly that he withdrew from her, and so abruptly that Her Excellency looked surprised.  The incident passed, however, almost unperceived.  So loud was the thunder, everybody was thinking of dynamite, and it was some time before even the voluptuous strains of Liddell’s band could calm their inquietude.  Nevertheless the Chamberlain continued to shout: 

’Lady Sarah Cullen, Lady Jane Cullen, Mrs. Scully, presented by Lady Sarah Cullen.’