Pamela's contained a rather short-waisted frock of lilac silk, with a fichu of chiffon tied softly round the shoulders.
Sylvia's gown, made somewhat similarly, was of white satin, and her innocent face and golden head rose out of it a vision of loveliness.
It would be hard indeed to say which was the most beautiful girl that night; but Sylvia held her little court, or rather augmented it during the evening, while Pamela's, somehow, seemed to melt and fall away.
Miss Spencer found a comfortable seat for herself in one of the long galleries after dinner, and remained there, while one or another of her old cronies and admirers came up to talk with her.
She was almost as great a success in her way as Sylvia, of whom she caught glimpses now and again, waving her immense fan where she stood in the centre of the gallery, and playing with the conversation about her much as one plays at battledore and shuttlecock.
"The child will do," said Miss Spencer to herself, when Sir John Beaumont, an old admirer of hers, had gone to fetch her some refreshment. "Wonderful how she makes all those men look so delighted with her and themselves! It reminds me of a girl who could do that. Who was it? And what happened afterwards?... Ah! Pamela," she said, speaking aloud, "so you have come to see what I am doing."
"To stay with you awhile, Miss Spencer," said Pamela, creeping into the shadowy corner beside her.
"And where are all the beaux, my dear? It is not as if your heart was elsewhere."
Pamela smiled a wan little smile.
"I'm tired, Miss Spencer. I can't keep it up like Sylvia."