A perfect setting, McTaggart thought, for the fair-haired girl in her satin gown, as he watched the small patrician head bend attentive to the Bishop. He wondered if she herself had chosen that misty, metallic blue, and the single ornament that hung from a fine gold chain around her neck. He looked at the latter with curious eyes, appreciating the design; seed pearls strung about a cross of pale and flawed emeralds, set with barbaric carelessness in the rough hand-wrought metal, and weighed down by loops of pearls, quivering with each breath she drew. Meanwhile, the hostess was explaining the reason for the young man's visit. The Bishop, happy over his oysters, beamed his approval of the scheme. "But who, may I ask, is to be the Prince?" His voice was sly and a twinkle gleamed in the prominent short-sighted eyes, as McTaggart, somewhat hurriedly, admitted that the part was his. "In doublet and hose and pointed shoes. And a dreadful cap that won't stay on. You've no idea"--he turned to Cydonia--"the agony of mind it causes! Supposing--at the crucial moment"--he watched her still face as he spoke--"it tilted forward on to my nose? What a death-blow to Romance! And they won't allow me to wear an elastic, neatly fastened under my chin. And hat-pins are no earthly use. Can you suggest a remedy?" "I should hold it in my hand," she said. "Wonderful!"--McTaggart laughed--"and it never even occurred to me." He was relieved--at the same time piqued--by her smiling air of unconcern. "Under the circumstances, too, it might appear more chivalrous." He added the speech in a lower tone, with a sudden mischievous desire to stir in her a slight revolt. And, as if conscious of his thought, the brown eyes were averted. A faint fugitive color stole under the fairness of her skin. The Bishop's glance sought his hostess. Between the pair of elderly folk a silent question and answer flashed. "That's what I shall do," said McTaggart, "kneel and press it to my heart. I'd far rather have it there than balanced on my luckless head. Unfortunately," his voice was light--"you'll miss all my exquisite acting--unless you peep beneath your lashes. Do tell me that you will? Of course you're _supposed_ to be asleep." "You talk as if it were quite settled," Mrs. Cadell with a smile, interposed, "but I haven't yet decided whether Cydonia will take the part." "Oh! you couldn't be so cruel!" McTaggart showed his disappointment. "Think of poor Lady Leason. You've no idea how worried she is. And, if your daughter refuses to help us, we're threatened with Mrs. Bertie Eying. She's simply dying to take it on. Just picture her as a Sleeping Beauty!" He gave a sudden shiver and turned toward the amused Bishop. "One of those new ropy girls--all shoulders and feet, you know. No spine, and straight hair drawn down over her ears. Like a French fashion-plate with all the Frenchness left out."