Somehow the girl’s clothes were not right, her hair was badly dressed; what a contrast to Lola Corbett, in her marvellous French frock, with her glittering ornaments, and shameless shoulders. Lola was in great form: talking incessantly, gay, provoking, challenging. Of course, _she_ was made up: but she took the centre of the stage, and beside her brilliance and vivacity the timid bride looked positively washed out, and dowdy. The hostess failed to understand most of the good stories, chaff, and repartee that circulated with the ’84 champagne. She felt hopelessly stupid and bewildered, when the company roared with laughter, and hammered and thumped on the table--for the point of the anecdote, or saying, had generally eluded her altogether. Once, an unmistakably plain tale brought a flood of scarlet into her face, and she looked so startled and so shocked, that a not easily embarrassed party felt momentarily abashed. Mrs. Blagdon did not care for champagne, she preferred lemonade! had never been to a music-hall, or smoked in her life. This much Lord Robbie gathered, as they rose and led the way into the grand lounge, with its dazzling illuminations, mighty palms, and seductive seats; its admirable orchestra and festive company. Here, the party soon discovered a comfortable corner, and whilst the men selected cigars and liqueurs and discussed an important handicap, the two lady guests sank into deep fauteuils--one on either side of their hostess, and began, with clever probing questions, to examine her respecting her tour, her plans, her tastes, whilst all the time they surveyed her with hard and critical eyes. Nothing escaped their inspection, from the little mean aigrette in her ill-dressed hair, to the tip of her satin shoe. Round her slender throat was a diamond collet, its emerald pendants presenting a charming contrast with a snow-white neck. Mrs. Corbett instantly recognised her long and vainly coveted ornament, and her glance gleamed. So here, was the Monte Carlo necklace, by rights her possession, bestowed on this little milk-and-water school miss! and she instantly made up her mind to retrieve the treasure, on an appropriate opportunity. And if her husband’s friends were disappointed in his bride, it was no less true, that they had made an unpleasant impression on her. She shrank in secret consternation from the men’s bold glances, questioning eyes, and reckless talk; and from these two painted women--with their insufferable patronage, and familiarity. “Of course, we must call you Letty,” had been one of Lady Slater’s first announcements. “I am Tatty, Mrs. Corbett is Lola. You see we are such _very_ old pals of your husband’s, we couldn’t call him Hugo, and you Mrs. Blagdon, could we?”