These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the other end being held under the foot of some one far away.

Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in fashionable garb. But to resume.

The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed a regular--or rather, irregular--spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle, leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet, trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.

Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day, and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.

Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak.

Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord Artingale they were not half bad, "only there's too much suggestion of the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row."

Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.

For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were "at home," and the big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.

Lord Artingale and his artist friend arrived early, Magnus to be b.u.t.ton-holed and taken aside to see his picture hung with a gaslight and reflector before it, to show it to the best advantage; and yet he was not grateful, for when he returned to Harry Artingale he growled, as the latter, who was very light-hearted and happy, said, "like a sore tom"-- cat, of course, understood.

Perry-Morton was standing with his blue china halo behind his head, and with a fleshly poetic look in his eye; and his sisters were each posed before a big Benares brown dish, etherealising her lambent curls and pallid face into virgin and martyr beauty, when the butler announced the Mallows, the girls looking very natural and charming, and Frank and Cyril creating quite a sensation with their sunburnt, swarthy faces and rugged bearing.

"Oh, Claudine," whispered Faustine, "look at Julia," and her sister uttered a tragic. "Ah!" as she advanced with her brother to receive the new arrivals.

Certainly Julia looked deadly pale, for as she descended from the carriage she had caught sight of a great burly fellow bearing a lantern, which he ostentatiously held low, so that her little pale blue satin rosetted shoes should not go astray from the carpeted path, and the sight of his dark eyes had sent the blood rushing to her heart. But this pallor rather added to than took from her beauty, as, simply dressed in the palest of pale blue satin, and her throat and arms wreathed with l.u.s.trous pearls, she seemed to stand alone amidst the throng of strangely grotesque costumes by which she was surrounded.

The sisters changed their key instanter upon seeing the effect produced upon their brother, whose eyes half closed once more as he greeted his guests. In fact, he treated the Rector with such deference, that for a moment it seemed as if he were going to sink upon his knees, and in true patriarchal style ask for his blessing.

But he did not, neither did he raise Julia's hand to his lips. He merely beamed upon her rapturously, led her to a seat after the congratulations of his sisters had had due course, and then, as a kind of hum went through the rooms, proceeded to hover over his choice.

"A melody in heaven's own azure," whispered Perry-Morton. "Julia, your costume is perfection."

The pallor on poor Julia's cheeks had been giving place to a vivid blush, but her host's words and manner once more drove the blood to her heart, and she sank back upon the lounge, glad to use her fan, for she thoroughly realised that she was looked upon by all present as the future mistress of the place.

"Magnus, my dear boy," whispered Artingale, "have you any charity in your nature?"

"Heaps. Why?"

"Because I want you to go and cut that fellow out. Julia really is a nice girl."

"Don't be a fool," was the answer, given with such intensity that Artingale was startled.

"Fool, be hanged! I'm in earnest. Wait a bit, and we'll go up to her together, and then I'll be off and leave you. You'd stand no end of a chance, for Cynthia likes you ever so."

"Don't be an a.s.s, Harry," said Magnus, "you seem to be happy enough.

Let the poor little body be."

"Well, I don't want to quarrel," said Artingale, "but if ever a fellow was a fool or an a.s.s I should think it would be when he turned up his nose at the chance of winning a little woman who has not been spoiled by the world."

"Oh, she's nice enough," said Magnus, gruffly. "Are those two brothers going to marry those stained-gla.s.s virgins?" he continued, as Cyril joined Frank, who was bending impressively towards Faustine.

"I wish to heaven they would," said Artingale, earnestly. "Hang the brothers! What a thing it is that pretty girls are obliged to have brothers! At last!--I'm off. There's the telegram."

The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow's eye to that of the speaker; and the message was,--

"_You dear stupid old goose, why don't you come_?"

For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn.

"Why didn't you come before, sir?" said the lady, looking very severely at her swain.

"I was afraid," he said.

"What, of me, sir?"

"No, no," he whispered, "I've been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night."

"For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain."

"There," he sighed, "now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford."

"Yes, but that's country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper."

"There, my beautiful little tyrant," he whispered, "I am your slave. I won't rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look."

"Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will," said Cynthia. "But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that's right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk."

In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing.

"Now, sir," whispered Cynthia, "you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly."

"May I sit down?"

"If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on."

Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content.

"The fact is--oh, murder!"

"Hush, Harry! What is the matter?"

"Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?"

"Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music."

"Not a bit," he whispered; "only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook."

"Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?" whispered Cynthia, looking up at the great _boy_ who towered over her.

"A brook, my darling, to go on for ever," he whispered back so earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused.

"Now you are talking nonsense again," she said. "Oh. I do wish that dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that, I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look so fierce and majestic?"