“Poor thing, she’s in all the states, what with these new dreadful doings and the insolence of the people, and Ildefonse letting his hair grow and going out to clubs o’ night to talk blasphemy. Ugh!” said Pamela, “I never could abide that man.” And my Lady Amelia Vibart, haggling over the wedding bills, ’twas a scandal! And had Aunt Lydia heard the last horrid tit-bit about my Lord Harborough and Miss Falcon? And wouldn’t it be a pity if Mr. Walsingham were to miss coming in for the title after all? ’Twas said my Lord Harborough was mad set on marrying her, when there wouldn’t be a mite of reason why she shouldn’t have a brat to put Mr. W.’s nose out of joint!
Lydia was still seeking for an interval in which to thrust, when My Lady’s bell rang with the double pull which indicated that Miss Pounce had better hurry herself, or my Lady would know the reason why.
Pamela smiled to herself as the door was banged behind her Aunt; then she sighed.
Aunt Lydia was a tabby if ever there was one, but oh, dear, what dreadful bit of tattle was she bound to hear before the evening was out? And oh, dear, what a pity it was that things went so contrary in this world, and that poor girls had hearts at all!
She had hardly had time pensively to nibble through a queen cake—for Pamela was much too sensible to let any sentimentality interfere with her appetite—when Lydia reappeared, and, with much flouncing and head tossing, informed her that, it being a dratted nuisance that people wouldn’t mind their own business, it had come to her Ladyship’s ears, through Pompey, that Pamela was present in the house. Nothing would serve her Ladyship but that she must come up at once about a “head” for to-night’s concert.
Pamela shook the crumbs from her apron and rose with the imperturbable alacrity which it was her pride to bring to all affairs of business.
The day was hot, and my Lady’s big bed-chamber a delicious cave of coolness after the highly-elevated atmosphere of Lydia’s own parlour. The amber curtains were drawn before the big windows; there was a shining sea of parquet floor on which delicate French furniture made here and there an attractive island. An immense bunch of roses on the spindle-legged dressing-table just caught the breeze from the wide-open window, and wafted fragrance. My Lady herself, extended in a vapour of white muslin on an amber satin couch, lazily fanning herself, was as agreeable a spectacle as any heated young woman with refined tastes could hope to gaze upon.
“Sit down, Miss Pounce,” said Kitty affably. “(Lydia, get out the bandbox with the saffron head.) Now, my dear, good, kind creature, look at it. Yes! I know. ’Tis the sweetest thing I’ve laid eyes on this season, but conceive my horror, Miss Pounce, when I heard anon that Her Majesty was to be present at the Duchess of Portland’s to-night. Conceive my horror! I saw myself with the Queen’s eyes! I tell you, Miss Pounce, my days at Court would have been counted.”
Here Lydia was heard to murmur, with the familiarity of long service, and a backward scratch at her niece that she was tired telling her Ladyship that the last year’s head from Madame Eglantine, which her Ladyship had never worn but the once, would be the very thing for her to wear to-night, “and a genteel, tasty, Frenchy confection it was,” which her Ladyship wouldn’t better not if she ransacked Bond Street.
“I tell you, you perverse piece,” cried her mistress, fanning herself with an energy calculated to make even the spectator feel hot, “that turn myself into a frump with a last year’s mode, I’ll not do, even to please the Queen. Pamela, child, I’ve set my heart on the saffron head. I vow and protest those gold ospreys with the cluster of saffron roses and the little wreath of green leaves between, I vow and protest ’tis the very dream to go with my India gold-embroidered gown. ’Tis there on the bed, my dear, as fine as a cobweb! There’ll not be another like it in the room. And there’s never anything so elegant as white and gold of a hot night. With my dark eyes, Pamela, and the gold ospreys—oh, but the gold ospreys, so airy, so fly-away! And Her Majesty who will not even tolerate feathers! I’d have worn my high band of diamonds—pshaw! it grieves me to the very soul! What can you suggest?”