Frank Pickard's sensations during this scene were of a kind which, although they were never forgotten, he never cared--or dared--to recall. He would have found it difficult to diagnose them, either then or at any other time. When, in after years his thoughts recurred--as they sometimes would--to that moment, what he remembered chiefly was the burning desire which seized him that the ground might open, and he sink into it and be hidden from the sight of all for evermore. The whole thing was such a bolt from the blue. A moment before he had been telling everyone what a charming person he had won for his wife--how she combined in her person all those attributes which go to make up the perfect woman. With his mother he had dwelt upon the fact of her refinement; had specially pointed out that, though she was only a chorus girl, she was still a high-bred lady. On questions of refinement and breeding he was conscious that his mother esteemed his judgment. And now, all at once, he found himself confronted by a young woman who was attired in a costume which suggested, more than anything else, a caricature of the tasteless vulgarity to which a certain sort of female could attain. She wore--on that blazing summer's day--a fantastically-cut, ill-fitting dress of scarlet satin--very long behind and very short in front--which was edged and trimmed with some weird material in light green. A black silk petticoat--with ragged edges--was more than visible; as also were her openwork light blue silk stockings, terminated by a pair of cheap, brand-new mustard-coloured shoes. On her bedizened hair was a monstrous picture hat, which bade fair to take the earliest opportunity of toppling forward over her eyes. The fingers of her ungloved hands were covered with gaudy--but worthless--rings; half a dozen bracelets and bangles of silver, and more than dubious gold, were on either wrist; a preposterous chatelaine dangled from a still more ridiculous belt; while her neck was imprisoned by a two-inch-high collar of imitation pearls. To complete the picture, her cheeks were rouged and powdered; her eyebrows pencilled, and her eyes kohled; her lips carmined. In spite of all her efforts she had been unable to conceal the fact that she was pretty; but, under the circumstances, her prettiness seemed to make the matter worse. Frank Pickard stared at her as if she were some creature born of a nightmare. Was this the dainty damsel whom he had been worshipping from a distance and who had seemed still daintier when he had been brought into close neighbourhood with her yesterday? What hideous metamorphosis had taken place in her between this and then? If he could only have taken to his heels and run! He was not to escape so easily. Having received no answer from Stanley Brock, she repeated her inquiry. "I say, old man, look lively! Didn't you hear me ask you if Sir Frank Pickard was anywhere about?"