Softly signalling to the burthened porter to wait in the hall, Miss Pounce nipped two special bandboxes from his grasp and herself mounted the stairs behind Kitty’s black boy. Her Ladyship was in her bedroom. That suited Pamela very well; in fact she had timed herself to find Kitty in her négligé, perfumed from her toilet, restored by her morning chocolate, just planning the pleasures of the day. Miss Pounce smiled, as bending her ear she caught the sound of feminine voices and laughter within. A discreet play of nails upon the panels remaining unanswered, she gave one authoritative tap and entered.
Kitty, in a cloud of lace, with lavender ribbons, occupied the centre of the apartment, throned in a high winged arm-chair. Her elbows were on the table before her, on which were strewn divers coloured prints and an immense heap of light-hued patterns of silk and satin. On either side of her sat her two special cronies: Lady Anne Day and Lady Flora Dare-Stamer. All three heads were bent together; no conspirators planning the downfall of the Crown, could have seemed more wrapped in mysterious colloquy. Pamela had to “hem” before her presence was noticed. Then the faces were lifted with a start, and Miss Pounce had no reason to complain of the effect of her unexpected appearance.
Kitty clapped her hands.
“What good wind has driven you hither, child, to-day of all days?”
“And I who was thinking,” cried Nan Day, “that I hadn’t a head to my curls, fit to appear at Kitty’s party, for my country slut has packed your rose tulle turban, and the Paris toque, Miss Pounce, I do assure you, as if she was stuffing a goose!”
“As for me,” said Lady Flora, “I haven’t paid Madame Mirabel’s account this goodness knows how long. But there—I think she knows I’m no bad customer after all”—with her fat laugh. “And I’m sure she’ll let me have a mode to set off my poor countenance, or I shall be lost indeed, amid so much youth and beauty!”
Miss Pounce put down her bandboxes, to give them admirably differentiated curtsies, and drew in her breath with that sucking sound which meant the excess of enjoyment.
My Lady Kilcroney was about to give an entertainment; an entertainment before which every other effort of hers should pale. It was to be honoured with the presence of the King and Queen and the Princesses; that went without saying. But it was to be more distinguished even than this. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, was expected for three days at Weymouth, on a kind of reconciliation visit to Their Majesties—there had been one of those too frequent ruptures between them—and my Lady’s party was the only one which he had signified his pleasure to attend. Never in all her triumphant days had Kitty reached such a triumph. It was no wonder that her eyes sparkled, and her hands trembled, as she turned over patterns, and discussed minuets.
Five violins from the Opera were coming, and the famous lady harpist. Only the select of the select were to be admitted to the sacred circle. The supper was to beat every feast that Kitty’s chef, with the assistance of several club friends, had ever before accomplished, and Kitty’s costume (carmine brocade powdered with silver rosebuds), was to outshine anything that that leader of fashion had previously donned.
“I declare I was about to post an express to Madame Mirabel to get you down, my dear,” said Kitty when the first clatter of conversation had something died away.