“Stop!” Mrs. Below’s voice was vibrating with passion. “I’m not going to try to teach you manners, because it’s waste of time: but you said just now that entertainments weren’t in your line. Well, kindly remember that lectures aren’t in mine—even when delivered by imitation wash-outs. I can stand an undertaker—in his place: I can even bear Little Lord Fauntleroy: but a cross between the two _on his hind legs_ is just a shade too thick even for me.” For a moment her husband hesitated, pale-faced. Then he opened the door and passed out. * * * * * That Miss Atlee’s maid should sit and talk with Pickford while the latter was doing her work was natural enough, and when she produced some silk to make a frill for the hood of Peregrine’s gown Mrs. Below’s maid was delighted with the attention. “It’ll give the ole long-cloth a flip,” explained Miss Mason. “Won’ look so much like a shraoud. There’s enough fer a pair o’ cuffs too, while we’re abaout it.” Two hours later she reported to Joan that Peregrine might be known by his frill and his cuffs. “You can’t mistake them, miss. It isn’t likely as there’ll be another gentleman there with silk on a long-cloth gaown, but if there was, you’ll be sure to know the silk. It’s a bit that was left over from linin’ your ermine coat.” “Right,” said Joan. “Thank you. What time do we unmask?” “Not before midnight, miss.” “I imagine dancing will start about half-past ten.” Mason was, as they say, very quick in the uptake. “Mrs. Below’s maid is ordered for ten o’clock: but that means nothin’, miss. Still, you never know. If you come upstairs at ten, that’ll give me time to dress you, an’ then I can slip off to their floor an’ watch them daown. Then you’ll know where you are, miss.” “All right, Mason. Thank you.” So it fell out that evening that the Carey Belows descended the great staircase with Joan Purchase Atlee a dozen steps behind. . . . They reached the painted ball-room in the same order. To identify Mrs. Below required but a nodding acquaintance with that lady’s way of life. Her domino eclipsed all others as the moon the stars. It was of cloth of silver, freckled with pips of gold. She was out for blood to-night. To be outstanding in disguise, to beggar all concealment, to blaze—a glowing houri in a shoal of ghosts. . . . Such was her dream. Be sure it was realized. Her progress was one long triumph. As she entered the ball-room her courtiers swarmed about her, pleading the favour of a dance. Peregrine slid to one side and got his back to the wall. . . .