The first to appear were the A.D.C.’s.  They were followed by the Medical Department, by the Private Secretary, the Military Private Secretary, the Assistant Under Secretaries, by the Gentlemen in Waiting, the Master of the Horse, the Dean of the Chapel Royal, the Chamberlain, the Gentleman Usher, the Comptroller, the State Steward, walking with a wand, like a doge in an opera bouffe; then came another secretary, and another band of the underlings who flock about this mock court.  And then came a heavy-built, red-bearded man, who carried, as one might a baby, a huge gilt sword in his fat hands.  He was followed by their Excellencies.  The long, maroon-coloured breeches preserved their usual disconsolateness, the teeth and diamonds retained their splendour, and the train—­many yards of azure blue richest Duchesse satin, embroidered with large bouquets of silver lily of the valley, and trimmed with plumes of azure blue ostrich feathers, and bunches of silver coral—­was upheld by two tiny children who tottered beneath its enormous weight.  Then another batch of A.D.C.’s-in-Waiting, the ladies of the viceregal family:  their Excellencies’ guests and the ladies in attendance—­placed according to their personal precedence—­brought up the rear of the procession.

’Doesn’t real, actual life sometimes appear to you, Miss Barton, more distorted and unreal than a dream?  I know it does to me.  The spectacle we have just witnessed was a part of the ages that believed in the godhead of Christ and the divine right of Kings; but it seems to me strange that such barbarities should be permitted to loiter.’

’But what has Christianity to do with the procession that has just passed?’

’Were it not for faith, do you think a mock court would be allowed to promenade in that ludicrous fashion?’

’I’m not sure it is faith that enables them to reverence the sword of State.  Is it not rather that love of ceremonial inherent in us all—­more or less?’

‘Perhaps you are right.’

The conversation drifted back to literature; they talked for ten minutes, and then Alice suggested that it was time she should return to Mrs. Barton.  Patrick’s Hall was still crowded, and champagne corks exploded through the babbling of the voices.  The squadron of distressed damsels had not deserted their favourite corner, and they waited about the pillars like cabs on a stand.  At this hour a middle-aged married doctor would be welcomed; all were desirous of being seen, if only for a moment, on the arm of a man.  Mrs. Barton’s triumph was Caesarean.  More than half-a-dozen old lords and one young man listened to her bewitching laugh, and were fed on the brown flashing gold of her eyes.  Milord and Rosshill had been pushed aside; and, apart, each sought to convince the other that he was going to leave town by the evening mail.  Well in view of everyone, Olive had spent an hour with Lord Kilcarney.  He had just brought her back to Mrs. Barton.  At