Navotsky, the dancer, was in black, dead and unrelieved, clinging to her sensuous limbs, outlining her white skin, and when she moved the sombre draperies parted, with flash of orange and silver underneath, sheath fitting, brilliantly gorgeous. A great band of diamonds outlined her small, sleek head. "More taxes on Grosse Holbein," murmured Mousie Cavendish. "Oh, what a joy to dine where there is a cook and not a preparer of defunct meats." There was no ostentation here, but a cunning which reached perfection. "Laying up for ourselves water-drinking in Homburg," remarked Jimmie, as he finished fish smothered in a sauce compound of many things, and went on with a soufflet of asparagus. "Well, it's worth it. Look at our Fritz, he's longing for stewed pork and plums; the butler tells me he has cold galantine and bread and pickles left in his room at night to assuage his hunger." As the blue smoke haze drifted, and black coffee and liqueurs came to interfere with digestion, Jimmie had dropped his voice to the note _intime_ which women recognize. He half whispered to Esmé; his admiration for her was more open than usual. Sybil talked to a clean-shaven youth who found her very dull, and almost showed it. Who stared when she chattered and admired, and seemed to think it provincial not to take all the world for granted. "Think her lovely, that dancer woman. All right in her way, I imagine. What a lovely ice, did you say? S'pose it's all right. Nevah eat 'em myself." Lord Francis Lennon got up with a sigh of relief to confide to the fair lady of forty who amused him that he hated "dinin' in the nursery." Outside a new moon lay silver on her azure, star-spangled bed. The lights in the garden were making a glittering circle. Mr Bellew, a sleek, dark man, who was occasionally recognized by his own guests as their host, rang a bell and read out some rules. Twenty minutes were given, and then every guest must have assumed a character, and only used what materials they could find in the heap prepared in the hall. Prizes to be given. "Think us fools," said Mousie, pulling a green overdress from under a cushion and becoming Undine. But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, rushed for cardboard to cut out armour, rifled the linen cupboards for tablecloths. Journals, sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable friends. Women got at the heap of odds and ends--gauzes, tinsel crowns, veils and lace, tying great sashes over their evening dresses, shrieking for inspiration. With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of the tenth earl, flung off her long green skirt, and stood forth audaciously in a froth of green silk reaching not far below her knees; put a paper crown on her head, and called herself a fairy. Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats massed outside as people peered through the shrubs.