A consignment of costumes had recently arrived per ss. _Arcadia_, and Mrs. Dawson invited all her neighbours to inspect them. The dresses were to be on view for two succeeding afternoons, but their owner omitted to despatch a little note to Mrs. Wilkinson. She would see all the toilettes later on in public, and, meanwhile, as she might steal some of the novel ideas, and was quite capable of carrying away a Paris pattern "in her eye," the poor lady was cruelly excluded. Late one evening Mrs. Rattray dropped in on Mrs. Wilkinson, _en route_ from the exhibition. She was a lively, fair woman, with an immense stock of superfluous enthusiasm. As soon as she had found a seat, and unfurled her fan, she began, "Well, my dear, I've never seen such frocks as she has got this time." "No," cried her hostess eagerly; "you have been to the show—do tell me all about them. I am dying to know what the dresses are like. French, of course—she said so." "Yes," drawing a long breath. "There is a grey _crêpe de chine_ and silver, like the moon in a mist, with very long, tight sleeves, and a sort of double skirt—it's a dream. There is a lemon satin with Egyptian embroidery and a long train, a black silk canvas with lace sleeves, piece lace—_you_ could easily copy that; and there is a lovely mauve tea-gown, with a yoke of point d'Alençon, and knots of black velvet with long ends, to which I lost my heart—it's quite my style—but she never lends a pattern, you know." "Yes," agreed her listener, "we all know that." "Then there are hats, and toques, and feathers, and silk petticoats. I never saw so many pretty things all at once. I think she got some smart cousin to choose them, for they are not in the same style as her usual dresses—really, you won't know her." Further details, descriptions, and even sketches, prolonged the interview for more than an hour. Meanwhile Angel sat growing in a corner, totally unnoticed, but absorbing every word of the conversation with a curious expression on her little elfish face.