"She has seen a French print somewhere," said Cliffe, who stood close by. "More Versailles in it than Fairy-land, I think!"
"It is she that is Fairy-land," said Harman, still fascinated.
Cliffe's expression showed the sarcasm of his thought. Fairy, perhaps!—with the touch of malice and inhuman mischief that all tradition attributes to the Little People. Why, after that first meeting, when the conversation of a few minutes had almost swept them into the deepest waters of intimacy, had she slighted him so, in other drawing-rooms and on other occasions? She had actually neglected and avoided him,—after having dared to speak to him of his secret! And now Ashe's letter of the morning had kindled afresh his sense of rancor against a pair of people too prosperous and too arrogant. The stroke in the Times had, he knew, gone home; his vanity writhed under it, and the wish to strike back tormented him, as he watched Ashe mounting behind his wife, so handsome, careless, and urbane, his jewelled cap dangling in his hand.
The quadrille of gods and goddesses was over. Kitty had been dancing with a fine clumsy Mars, in ordinary life an honest soldier and deer-stalker, the heir to a Scotch dukedom; having as her visa-vis Madeleine Alcot—as the Flora of Botticelli's spring,—and a slim Mercury in fantastic Renaissance armor. All the divinities of the Pantheon indeed were there, but in Gallicized or Italianate form; scarcely a touch of the true antique, save in the case of one beautiful girl who wore a Juno dress of white, whereof the clinging folds had been arranged for her by a young Netherlands painter, Mr. Alma-Tadema, then newly settled in this country. Kitty at first envied her; then decided that she herself could have made no effect in such a gown, and threw her the praises of indifference.
When, to Kitty's sharp regret, the music stopped and the glittering crew of Immortals melted into the crowd, she found behind her a row of dancers waiting for the quadrille which was to follow. This was to consist entirely of English pictures revived—Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Romney,—and to be danced by those for whose families they had been originally painted. As she drew back, looking eagerly to right and left, she came across Mary Lyster. Mary wore her hair high and powdered,—a black silk scarf over white satin, and a blue sash.
"Awfully becoming!" said Kitty, nodding to her. "Who are you?"
"My great-great-aun !" said Mary, curtsying. "You, I see, go even further back."
"Isn't it fun?" said Kitty, pausing beside her. "Have you seen William? Poor dear, he's so hot! How do you do?" This last, careless greeting was addressed to Cliffe, whom she now perceived standing behind Mary.
Cliffe bowed stiffly.
"Excuse me. I did not see you. I was absorbed in your dress. You are Artemis, I see,—with additions."
"Oh! I am an 'article de Paris,'" said Kitty. "But it seems odd that some people should take me for Joan of Arc." Then she turned to Mary. "I think your dress is quite lovely!" she said, in that warm, shy voice she rarely used except for a few intimates, and had never yet been known to waste on Mary. "Don't you admire it enormously, Mr. Cliffe?"
"Enormously," said Cliffe, pulling at his mustache. "But by now my compliments are stale."
"Is he cross about William's letter?" thought Kitty. "Well, let's leave them to themselves."
Then, as she passed him, something in the silent personality of the man arrested her. She could not forbear a look at him over her shoulder. "Are you—Oh! of course, I remember." For she had recognized the dress and cap of the Spanish grandee.
Cliffe did not reply for a moment, but the harsh significance of his face revived in her the excitable interest she had felt in him on the day of his luncheon in Bruton Street; an interest since effaced and dispersed, under the influence of that serenity and home peace which had shone upon her since that very day.
"I should apologize, no doubt, for not taking your advice," he said, looking her in the eyes. Their expression, half bitter, half insolent, reminded her.
