Mr. Bygood was the only gentleman who went upstairs, but the Chanters and several other parties of ladies rustled up to the Red Indian room and were passed in review by the invalid Arbitress. Last of all came Kitty herself; first rosy and breathless, in fur coat and cap, to summon Miss Johanna's last caller; then, half an hour later, still rosy, but calm and demure, to show herself to her aunt. I was with her, in what male writers call "something white and filmy"; I called it chiffon; Miss Johanna had forbidden filminess for Kitty. "When you've got lines, show 'em!" was her dictum. How different from Miss Egeria, who was always troubled if one sat down without shaking out one's skirts thoroughly. "My dear!" she would whisper. "You show your shape!" Kitty had rummaged the ancestral trunks in the attic and had found a thick, heavy pale green satin, over which Miss Johanna had waved the scissors of a necromancer, Miss Anne Peace, as her attendant sprite (dear, meek little brown sprite! she was at Madam Flynt's, too, "taking off" for the ladies upstairs), translating her magic into terms of needle and thread. The soft gleaming fabric clung round as lovely a figure, I thought, as ever entered a ballroom. There was just enough lace at the neck, not an inch too much: wonderful Rose Point. The Bygoods were not the only people who had lace, Miss Johanna said with a friendly sniff: and there was the Beryl Necklace, for which, the same lady pointed out, the satin had probably been woven and dyed. Certainly they were an astonishing match, and anything more beautiful than the combination of necklace and gown and Kitty cannot possibly be imagined. This is not just my enthusiasm--everybody said the same thing--except Miss Johanna; but her nod, and "H'm! you'll do!" was fully as emphatic. So we went to the Party; our Party, given for us! two proud and happy girls. Madam Flynt's spacious double parlors looked more ample than usual from the removal of most of the furniture. The tables were gone, the big sofa, all the armchairs except Madam Flynt's own; the Sheraton chairs shrugging their shoulders against the wall took up little room. The Turkey carpet was up, the polished floor gleamed in the light of numberless wax candles. Madam Flynt sat at the upper end of the long room, stately and handsome in lilac brocade with cascades of creamy Venetian Point. (I seem to be saying a great deal about lace: I can't help it: it is one of the pleasantest things I know!) Kitty and I stood by her, one on either side; Miss Croly, her purple alpaca exchanged for a silk of the same hue, hovered in the background, beaming welcome on the guests, but casting an occasional anxious glance at her friend and patroness. On her arm she carried a white Canton crape shawl, heavily embroidered, with long fringe. Occasionally she would bend over Madam Flynt and murmur something, with a gesture toward the shawl, but the hostess seemed unaware of her existence.