Denis Kilcroney was sitting erect upon the sofa, with his arms folded, and a stern glance upon the glib Pamela. This young person avoided meeting the glance in question. She felt that her swift appearance at Mrs. Lafone’s lodgings on the heels of my Lord’s stormy exit was, for all her clever patter, a little too obvious a coincidence. “I’ve a head here,” went on Miss Pounce, beginning to set down her bandboxes, and making the most theatrical effects with the undoing of strings and rustling of tissue paper. “Well, _really_, the Duchess of Hampshire wanted, right or wrong, to have it for her ball last week when she entertained the Prince, as you may have seen by the news-sheet, Madam. But I says to her, ‘No, your Grace,’ I says, ‘’tis too elfin for your Grace. Your Grace wants, so to speak, the Goddess effect.’ And as I says it, if you’ll believe me, I thought of you, ma’am.” Mrs. Lafone did not believe her, but she stood, hesitating a little, over the bandboxes, torn between a pettish desire to dismiss with obloquy the wretch who had come to turn the dagger in the wound, and the budding hope that Mr. Stafford, who had plenty of money, might be moved to do the generous for once, and present his injured sister-in-law with a token of his esteem. Miss Pounce drew out what was indeed a fairy-like wreath of pale blue convolvulus, and Molly exclaimed in rapture. In a wink Miss Pounce had placed it on the fair, dishevelled head. “Oh, Madam, if ever there was a perfect vision! Look, Mr. Stafford, Sir! Look, my Lord, if I may make so bold; isn’t Mrs. Lafone fitted, so to speak, like a--like a----” She faltered on the simile, for neither gentlemen showed any disposition to rise to the occasion. My Lord cast another glance upon the milliner, which said as plain as words: “Don’t think you can take me in, my good girl,” and then, with a formal bow to the syren and a wave of the hand to Stafford, he sauntered out of the room. Mr. Stafford flung a glance of mocking pity after him, whistling a ballad tune under his breath; then he put his hand into his pocket, but it was only to produce a snuffbox, from which he proceeded to inhale. Molly pettishly tore the wreath from her curls, declaring in her most acrid accents: “Really, Miss Pounce, this is a great liberty. I can order my hats for myself when I require them, and then I usually write to Madame Eglantine, in Paris. And anyhow, I am not going into society by doctor’s orders. I am here for my health. Pray, Mr. Stafford, will you pull the bell rope, that Madame Mirabel’s assistant may be shown to the door.”