Pamela put her finger to her lip and corrugated her white brow in the profoundest thought. Kitty held her breath as she watched her. The fate of nations might have been hanging between them. Then said the milliner decisively, “I see nothing for it. We can’t do it, my Lady. The ospreys will have to go.” Then, as Kitty’s face fell, she added briskly, “But there! I often say to myself, what seems a trial is a blessing. Why should not your Ladyship set a fashion? It came to me just as I looked at your Ladyship’s gown and the fairy elegance of that India embroidery, and your Ladyship wears a wreath so becoming; wouldn’t gold grapes and green leaves look tasty, bunches each side with the di’mond bandeau to draw them together?” “Pounce, you’re a genius!” Kitty dropped her fan to clap her hands. At the same moment my Lord came into the room and smiled to see her look so pleased. “Faith, and I’ve come at the right tick of the clock, I think--morning to you, Miss Pounce. You and my Lady and your fripperies, ’tis the business of the world, ain’t it?” He rubbed his hands and hemmed. “By your bright face, I’ve come at the right tick, Kitty, me darling, to ask you for a proof of your good nature.” “A proof of my good nature, my Lord? So long as ’tis nothing to go against my good sense.” Kitty was always ready to oblige, in reason, but she had her wits about her. “Stay, child,” she cried, as Pamela prepared discreetly to withdraw. “It can but take a moment. We must send Pompey for the grapes, to Bond Street, and I vow that no hand but yours shall fasten them in my curls. Your niece will write a note, Lydia, at my escritoire, and see that the black brat runs. They might send a choice of sizes, what think you, Pamela? _Oh, what is it_, my Lord? You men are so impatient.” “Why, Kitty,” said her husband, coming close to the sofa, on which his lively little spouse now sat very straight, gesticulating among the mother-of-pearl shimmer of her cushions. “The matter concerns you, really, more than meself. At least, it concerns your family. Poor young Bellairs has been arrested for debt. Nipped from me very side, my dear, as we came out of the Cocoa Tree together, a while ago, by a rascally pimp!” “Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs? Do you refer to Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs?” asked my Lady Kilcroney, becoming rigid. Pamela’s quill, scratching wildly across a great sheet of paper, was arrested in mid flourish. There was a small unpleasant pause, broken by a loud sniff from Lydia. Then my Lady said: “Indeed. I understood the young gentleman was at Bristol.”