"No, I know you couldn't help it. Of course you couldn't help it. That's just it--you never expected the man. I went to lunch with another liar last week--I beg your pardon, Miss Belvoir--who asked me to meet Duse. She was so sorry she couldn't come at the last minute. She sent a telegram. Well, all I ask is, let me see the telegram." "But you couldn't; he 'phoned," objected Miss Belvoir. "So you _say_," returned the young man, as he passed a cup of tea to Bertha. "Will you have China tea and lemon and be smart, or India tea and milk and sugar and enjoy it? I don't mind owning that I like stewed tea--I like a nice comfortable washer-woman's cup of tea myself. Well, I suppose we're all going to the Indian ball at the Albert Hall. What are you all going as? I suppose Miss Belvoir's going as a nautch-girl, or a naughty girl or something." "I'm going as a Persian dancer," said Miss Belvoir. "I'm not going as anything," said Bertha. "I hate fancy balls. One takes such a lot of trouble and then people look only at their own dresses. If you want to dress up for yourself, you'd enjoy it just as much if you dressed up alone, I think." "Well, of course it's not so much fun for women," said Mr. Fairfield. "You are always more or less in fancy dress; it's no change for you. But for us it is fun. The last one I went to I had a great success as a forget-me-not. Miss Belvoir and I met an elephant, an enormous creature, galumphing along, knocking everybody down, and wasn't it clever of me? I recognised it! 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'this must be the Mitchells!' And so it turned out to be. Mr. Mitchell was one leg, Mrs. Mitchell the other, two others were their great friends and their little nephew was the trunk. Frightfully uncomfortable, but they did attract a great deal of attention. They nearly died of the stuffiness, but they took a prize. My friend Linsey usually takes a prize, though he always contrives some agonising torture for himself. The last time he was a letter-box, and he was simply dying of thirst and unable to move. I saved his life by pouring some champagne down the slit for the letters, on the chance. Another friend of mine who was dressed in a real suit of armour had to be lifted into the taxi, and when he arrived home he couldn't get out. When he at last persuaded the cabman to carry him to his door--it was six o'clock in the morning--the man said, 'Oh, never mind, sir, we've had gentlemen worse than this!' And the poor fellow hadn't had a single drop or crumb the whole evening, because his visor was down and he couldn't move his arm to lift it up. If you went as anything, Mrs. Kellynch, you ought to be a China Shepherdess. I never saw anyone so exactly like one." "And what ought I to go as?" asked Madeline. "You would look your best as a Florentine page," replied Mr. Fairfield. "Or both of you would look very nice as late Italians."