She is dressed as Galatea, in a clinging garment of the severest Greek style, with no jewels upon her neck, and with her exquisite arms bare to the shoulder. One naked sandalled foot can be seen as she comes leisurely to them step by step. She is holding a low Etruscan lamp in one hand upon a level with her head, and there is just the faintest suspicion of a smile about her usually irresponsive lips. No one speaks until her feet touch the hall, when a little murmur, indistinct, yet distinctly admiring, arises to greet her. "I hope I don't look foolish," she says, with as much nervousness in her tone as can possibly be expected from her. "Oh, Hermia, you are looking too lovely," says Olga, with a burst of genuine enthusiasm. "Is she not, Owen?" But Mr. Kelly makes no reply. A slight tinge of color deepens Mrs. Herrick's complexion as she turns to him. "Poor Mr. Kelly!" she says, the amused flicker of a smile flitting over her face, which has now grown pale again. "What a situation! There! don't sully your conscience: I will let you off your lie. That is where an old friend comes in so useful, you see." "At all events, I don't see where the lie would come in. But, as you do, of course I shall say nothing," says Kelly. "What a Pygmalion!" says Olga, in high disgust. "And what a speech! Contemptible! I don't believe any Galatea would come to life beneath _your_ touch. It would be cold as the marble itself!" So saying, she moves away to where Monica is standing, looking quite the sweetest thing in the world, as "A nun demure, of lowly port." "She has prophesied truly," says Kelly, in a low tone, turning to Mrs. Herrick. "I fear _my_ Galatea will never wake to life for _me_." A subdued bell tinkles in the distance. "Our summons," says Mrs. Herrick, hastily, as though grateful to it; and presently she is standing upon a pedestal, pale motionless, with a rapt Pygmalion at her feet, and some Pompeian vases and jugs (confiscated from the drawing-room) in the background. And then follow the other tableaux, and then the stage is deserted, and, music sounding in the distant ballroom, every one rises and makes a step in its direction, the hearts of some of the younger guests beating in time to it. "Where are you going?" says Ulic Ronayne, seeing Olga about to mount the stairs once more. "To help the others to get into civilized garb,--Hermia and Monica, I mean. Lady Teazle I consider capable of looking after herself." "H'm! you say that? I thought Miss Fitzgerald was a friend of yours." "Then you thought like the baby you are. No! Women, like princes, find few real friends. But one in a hundred can fill that character gracefully, and Bella is _not_ that one." She turns to run up the stairs. "Well, don't be long," says Mr. Ronayne. "I'll be ready in a minute," she says; and in twenty-five she really _is_.