The letter dropped from Kilcroney’s hand. His good-natured face (for in spite of tantrums he was to the core a man of good nature), clouded with genuine dismay. It looked as if the plaguey business, which he had regarded in the light of a mere game, was like to turn to earnest. Why, in the name of Heaven, a woman with all the world could give her, and a devoted husband besides, should break up her family life for the pleasures of an annual three months’ slavery--Lady Florence had well named it--passed his comprehension. “Nay, Lydia,” Kitty’s voice was uplifted in the other room, “take back the tabby; aye, and the satin cloak from Madame Mirabel’s. I have thought better of it, child. Put away the Eglantine new hat with the feathers. I will wear muslin and a plain straw. I wish to Heaven,” cried Kitty pettishly, “that there was a milliner in the Kingdom who could run up a hat to suit a lady’s eyelashes or the tilt of her nose outside Paris.” “There’s the Italian straw we bought last time we was staying over there at Madame the Duchess’s,” said Lydia tentatively; “the same your ladyship ordered for yourself to wear at the _Feet_ at Trianon to which the French Queen asked us--and a sweet elegant creature Her Majesty is, with all her fancies for dairies and such--and the thunderstorm coming on it was the disappointment of the world, and one that I am not like to forget in a hurry! Sure your ladyship ain’t forgotten it? A plain rice straw, with a ribbon round, but with a set to it! Aye, and trimmed by my blood-niece, as is apprenticed to Madame Eglantine out of my own poor savings; me being always one to stand by my family, cost what it do.” “The Italian straw,” my Lady reflected; “’twas monstrous thoughtful of you, child, to pack it--la, Lydia, ’tis the very thing--trimmed by your niece did you say? Nay, only the genius of Eglantine could twist a bow like that. Put it on my head. Why, ’tis perfect--aye, I will wear it. Her Majesty desires simplicity.” “Simplicity, is it?” Kilcroney groaned. “God help us all!” As Kitty sallied forth, all in vapoury white, fresh and sweet as a privet blossom, her face delicately pink under the artful shepherdess hat, Pompey following with the great rose-bunch in a bandbox, and little Denis trotting alongside scarlet-cheeked from a triumphant battle royal over the wearing of gloves, my Lord looked after them with some melancholy. “I’ll stroll along presently and keep in the background. I’d not like to be blighting Kitty’s prospects after the fashion of yonder poor Rachel. By all accounts Her gracious Majesty Queen Charlotte is no more like to fancy an Irishman than the unhappy girl that has a mistake to her name.”