‘You must wear the black gloves, Mrs. Arbuthnot. No shadow of doubt about it! As you see, I don’t go in for dandy dress myself,’ said Marjorie, ‘but one can’t help hearing the whispers of the milliners. These long silk gloves are at present the one righteous thing to wear in London and in Paris.’ ‘And no ribbons, no ornament? I have a gold necklace that looks nice on black, and----’ ‘You want no ornament at all. You must take our little world by storm just as you stand at this moment. Miller has some crimson roses in his garden. We will cut one as we pass. The black of your hat would be better for a single spot of colour.’ By the time Marjorie’s fiery Welsh ponies had rushed up to the Arsenal four o’clock was striking. The rose-show festivities were, for the weak and frivolous, at their culminating point. It was the hour when staid flower-lovers--sensible souls who came to see the real, not the human roses--were leaving, Cassandra Tighe among them. ‘I am starting off to Tintajeux,’ she told Marjorie, as they passed each other at the entrance. ‘The Seigneur’s “Duc de Rohan” has taken a prize, and I must be first to carry the news to the Manoir.’ Then, with a kindly glance at Dinah, ‘You have done the right thing, have paid your visit,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t see the necessity of mixing yourself up with it all in public. Linda Thorne presides at the refreshment tent, and that wretched man is simply infatuated in his attentions. But the error is generous. Being a Bartrand, you can, I suppose, do nothing by halves.’ ‘I consider myself honoured by appearing with Mrs. Arbuthnot,’ returned Marjorie, very low. ‘I want to judge of that wretched man’s conduct at first hand, see facts alive, and extract their meaning by the light of my own common sense.’ CHAPTER XIII THROUGH SMOKE-COLOURED SPECTACLES The refreshment tent was pitched at the most conspicuous point of the Arsenal, just within the gates. Here Linda Thorne, assisted by three or four white-muslined aides-de-camp, dispensed strawberries, ices, and tea, liberal of smiles, but most illiberal in charges to the crowd. Gaston Arbuthnot hovered near, not engaging Mrs. Thorne’s attention, but with the air of a man whose freedom is nominal--of a prisoner on parole. The ayah had vanished. Small Rahnee, in a corner, was busily laying up a week’s trouble for her tropical digestion over a plate of stolen macaroons. A swarm of well-gloved, well-set-up young gentlemen, subalterns, for the most part, of the Maltshire Royals, newly returned from Africa, clustered ornamentally around. ‘Lord Rex,’ cried Linda, in a playful voice appealing to a youth who stood behind her chair, a plain but ultra-dandified youth, with a sun-scorched face, sandy hair and eyelashes, and who wore his left arm in a sling. ‘My dear Lord Rex, where are your thoughts to-day? For the third and last time of asking, will you run across to Madame the Archdeaconess, and press her to drink a second cup of tea?’