Miss Pounce drew out what was indeed a fairy-like wreath of pale blue convolvulus, and Molly exclaimed in rapture. In a wink Miss Pounce had placed it on the fair, dishevelled head.
“Oh, Madam, if ever there was a perfect vision! Look, Mr. Stafford, Sir! Look, my Lord, if I may make so bold; isn’t Mrs. Lafone fitted, so to speak, like a—like a——” She faltered on the simile, for neither gentlemen showed any disposition to rise to the occasion.
My Lord cast another glance upon the milliner, which said as plain as words: “Don’t think you can take me in, my good girl,” and then, with a formal bow to the syren and a wave of the hand to Stafford, he sauntered out of the room.
Mr. Stafford flung a glance of mocking pity after him, whistling a ballad tune under his breath; then he put his hand into his pocket, but it was only to produce a snuffbox, from which he proceeded to inhale.
Molly pettishly tore the wreath from her curls, declaring in her most acrid accents:
“Really, Miss Pounce, this is a great liberty. I can order my hats for myself when I require them, and then I usually write to Madame Eglantine, in Paris. And anyhow, I am not going into society by doctor’s orders. I am here for my health. Pray, Mr. Stafford, will you pull the bell rope, that Madame Mirabel’s assistant may be shown to the door.”
Miss Pounce started to re-pack the wreath, with further extraordinary manipulations of tissue paper. She was all bland apology. She craved a hundred pardons. She had made so sure that Mrs. Lafone would be going to my Lady Kilcroney’s ball at the Assembly Rooms to-morrow night. She hoped and trusted it would be as great a success as the Duchess of Hampshire’s last week, and that His Royal Highness would be equally delighted with his entertainment. “Though of course——” here the milliner genteelly tittered, “it was not likely he would be equally demonstrative to his hostess. Was it possible Madame had not heard how His Royal Highness, saying ‘It is a Sovereign’s privilege to salute another Sovereign, and you are Queen of Beauty,’ had kissed her Grace of Hampshire on the cheek after the minuet—Oh, indeed, she had danced like an angel, and looked exceedingly well—before the whole assembly?”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Stafford, with humorous meaning.
“And I’m sure, I hope,” cried acrid Molly, “that His Royal Highness may be as prodigal of caress to my Lady Kilcroney. Oh!” she cried, clasping her hands, “if that is the kind of fit that’s on him, and he was to kiss my sweetest Kitty before his Royal Mamma and the lovely Princesses, what a monstrous joke it would be.”
Here Mr. Stafford stepped forward and opened the door.