‘Charming!’ cried Mrs. Beecher and Maude.

’It is not a very difficult costume, you know.  I have some old Point d’Alencon lace which has been in the family for a century.  I make it the starting-point of my costume.  The gown need not be very elaborate—­’

‘Silk?’ asked Mrs. Beecher.

‘Well, I thought that perhaps a white-flowered brocade—­’

‘Oh yes, with pearl trimming.’

‘No, no, dear, with my lace for trimming.’

‘Of course.  You said so.’

‘And then a muslin fichu coming over here.’

‘How perfectly sweet!’ cried Maude.

’And the waist cut high, and ruffles at the sleeves.  And, of course, a picture hat—­you know what I mean—­with a curling ostrich feather.’

‘Powdered hair, of course?’ said Mrs. Beecher.

‘Powdered in ringlets.’

’It will suit you admirably—­beautifully.  You are tall enough to carry it off, and you have the figure also.  How I wish I was equally certain about my own!’

‘What had you thought of, dear?’

’Well, I had some idea about “Ophelia.”  Do you think that it would do?’

‘Certainly.  Had you worked it out at all?’

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Beecher, relapsing into her pleasant confidential manner.  ’I had some views, but, of course, I should be so glad to have your opinion about it.  I only saw Hamlet once, and the lady was dressed in white, with a gauzy light nun’s-veiling over it.  I thought that with white pongee silk as an under-dress, and then some sort of delicate—­’

‘Crepe de Chine,’ Maude suggested.

‘But in Ophelia’s day such a thing had never been heard of,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  ‘A net of silver thread—­’

‘Exactly,’ cried Mrs. Beecher, ’with some sort of jewelling upon it.  That was just what I had imagined.  Of course it should be cut classically and draped—­my dressmaker is such a treasure—­and I should have a gold embroidery upon the white silk.’

‘Crewel work,’ said Maude.

’Or a plain cross-stitch pattern.  Then a tiara of pearls on the head.  Shakespeare—­’

At the name of the poet their three consciences pricked simultaneously.  They looked at each other and then at the clock with dismay.

‘We must—­we really must go on with our reading,’ cried Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  ‘How did we get talking about these dresses?’

‘It was my fault,’ said Mrs. Beecher, looking contrite.

‘No, dear, it was mine,’ said Maude.  ’You remember it all came from my saying that Frank had gone to the ball as the Pied Piper.’

‘I am going to read the very first poem that I open,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer remorselessly.  ’I am afraid that it is almost time that I started, but we may still be able to skim over a few pages.  Now then!  There!  Setebos!  What a funny name!’

‘What does it mean?’ asked Maude.