Miss Pounce put down her bandboxes, to give them admirably differentiated curtsies, and drew in her breath with that sucking sound which meant the excess of enjoyment. My Lady Kilcroney was about to give an entertainment; an entertainment before which every other effort of hers should pale. It was to be honoured with the presence of the King and Queen and the Princesses; that went without saying. But it was to be more distinguished even than this. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, was expected for three days at Weymouth, on a kind of reconciliation visit to Their Majesties--there had been one of those too frequent ruptures between them--and my Lady’s party was the only one which he had signified his pleasure to attend. Never in all her triumphant days had Kitty reached such a triumph. It was no wonder that her eyes sparkled, and her hands trembled, as she turned over patterns, and discussed minuets. Five violins from the Opera were coming, and the famous lady harpist. Only the select of the select were to be admitted to the sacred circle. The supper was to beat every feast that Kitty’s chef, with the assistance of several club friends, had ever before accomplished, and Kitty’s costume (carmine brocade powdered with silver rosebuds), was to outshine anything that that leader of fashion had previously donned. “I declare I was about to post an express to Madame Mirabel to get you down, my dear,” said Kitty when the first clatter of conversation had something died away. Pamela pinched her lips. “Well, if it isn’t Providence! I’ve got in that bandbox a head!--a head, I say, my Lady, roses dew-dropped with Strass, and just a twist of silver net illusion--if it ain’t Providence!” Perhaps Miss Lydia Pounce had assisted Providence in this matter. That admirable abigail had her wits all about her. The three charming ladies held their breath while the nimble young milliner went down on one knee and began to unfasten the cordings of the larger bandbox. Scarcely had her fingers reached the palpitating stage of tissue paper, when the door was flung violently open, and Lord Kilcroney marched into the room. He came in with a great swing of coat-tails and stamp of high boots, and it was plain to see, by other tokens--his flaming eye, his dilated nostril, his clenched jaw--that he was in a towering rage. The ladies fell apart, with the movement of scared birds under the dash of the hawk. Even Kitty cowered in her chair, though only for a second. Before the gathering wrath exploded, she had reared her pretty head in defiance, and was ready to meet him with a temper-flash as stormy as his own. He flung on the table an open letter--a fragrant, pink sheet it was, with coquettish wafer still attached--and pinning it with his finger, asked in a voice, hoarse and trembling from his efforts to control it: “Is this a forgery, my Lady, or is it a bad joke?”