“The child has lovely eyes--eyes like some beautiful wild filly, that is ready to bolt. She is as pretty as a picture, but she is too young! My dear man, why doesn’t she get a woman who can do her hair? And where _did_ she pick up those early Victorian garments? She doesn’t give herself half a chance!” Blagdon glared into the artistically painted face of his companion. “As you say, she is too young,” he growled savagely; “give her time--in twenty years she’ll be up to all the tricks of the trade!” Hugo was secretly furious with his old associates; they had not shown half enough enthusiasm; with regard to his bride, their congratulations had been tepid. He had expected them to figuratively prostrate themselves, and worship the girl he had delighted to honour; and as for the outer world, he anticipated that they would crane their necks, or even mount on chairs (as in the case of a renowned beauty) in order to catch sight of the famous Mrs. Blagdon! He stared over at Letty, seated a little aloof from Lola and Lord Robbie,--who had now been joined by two vivacious ladies, and a man resembling a brigand chief. Yes, she certainly _was_ a bit out of the picture, among these well-dressed, well-corseted, animated women; there was no liqueur glass by her, no cigarette between her lips, her hands were tightly clasped in her lap, and she looked for all her lovely face, forlorn and badly dressed,--the picture of conscious insignificance. Her attitude, too, not lounging in careless ease, but cramped up, with her feet tucked under her chair, suggested a fear of mice. There were no mice in this magnificent lounge. The truth he could divine. Letty was afraid of her guests--a pretty condition for a hostess! Lady Slater’s criticisms were not thrown away; for the following day, the amazed and indignant Tucker received her wages and her _congé_. Mrs. Corbett had, for her part, kindly undertaken to find a good French maid, also to help Letty to select several really fashionable hats and gowns. “For goodness’ sake get her something she can be seen in,” urged Blagdon; “frocks that will make all the neighbours open their eyes--_le dernier cri_--and that sort of thing, real smart. Money no object!” As the atelier of Madame Tartare was close to their hotel, the two ladies proceeded thither on foot. They were received by a dignified man-servant, and conducted up a great staircase into a lofty suite of rooms, carpeted with moss-green Axminster, and lined with long mirrors and presses. After a moment’s delay, Madame appeared, a middle-aged woman with a clever face and a marvellously fitting gown: all gracious exclamations and gestures of welcome, until she realised that her chère Madame Corbett had come not in peace, but in war!