Miss Pamela Pounce was deposited at The White Hart, Weymouth, by the midday coach, having slept at Dorchester. She looked as crisp and modish as one of her own hats, as she tripped along the parade towards my Lady Kilcroney’s lodgings, followed by a porter who moved in a perfect grove of bandboxes. Miss Pounce had travelled to Weymouth with a selection of hats and heads for the tempting of her fashionable clientele. Born business woman as she was, she carried her unerring instinct into every detail, such as that very halt at Dorchester, which enabled her to impress at once by her appetising freshness and her air of not having lost a minute in providing an esteemed customer with the very latest; “piping hot,” as she herself expressed it. She had no hesitation in the choice of her first patroness. My Lady Kilcroney gave the lead and Madame Mirabel’s partner only spoke the truth when she averred that she had rather have my Lady’s custom than that of Queen Charlotte and all the Princesses. Softly signalling to the burthened porter to wait in the hall, Miss Pounce nipped two special bandboxes from his grasp and herself mounted the stairs behind Kitty’s black boy. Her Ladyship was in her bedroom. That suited Pamela very well; in fact she had timed herself to find Kitty in her _négligé_, perfumed from her toilet, restored by her morning chocolate, just planning the pleasures of the day. Miss Pounce smiled, as bending her ear she caught the sound of feminine voices and laughter within. A discreet play of nails upon the panels remaining unanswered, she gave one authoritative tap and entered. Kitty, in a cloud of lace, with lavender ribbons, occupied the centre of the apartment, throned in a high winged arm-chair. Her elbows were on the table before her, on which were strewn divers coloured prints and an immense heap of light-hued patterns of silk and satin. On either side of her sat her two special cronies: Lady Anne Day and Lady Flora Dare-Stamer. All three heads were bent together; no conspirators planning the downfall of the Crown, could have seemed more wrapped in mysterious colloquy. Pamela had to “hem” before her presence was noticed. Then the faces were lifted with a start, and Miss Pounce had no reason to complain of the effect of her unexpected appearance. Kitty clapped her hands. “What good wind has driven you hither, child, to-day of all days?” “And I who was thinking,” cried Nan Day, “that I hadn’t a head to my curls, fit to appear at Kitty’s party, for my country slut has packed your rose tulle turban, and the Paris toque, Miss Pounce, I do assure you, as if she was stuffing a goose!” “As for me,” said Lady Flora, “I haven’t paid Madame Mirabel’s account this goodness knows how long. But there--I think she knows I’m no bad customer after all”--with her fat laugh. “And I’m sure she’ll let me have a mode to set off my poor countenance, or I shall be lost indeed, amid so much youth and beauty!”