A transformed Evelyn stood before the long glass, wrapt in happy contemplation of her own image. From the fillet across her forehead, with its tremulous wire antennæ, to the sandalled slipper that showed beneath her silken draperies, all was gold. Two shimmering wings of gauze sprang from her shoulders; her hair, glittering with gold dust, waved to her waist; and a single row of topaz gleamed on the pearl tint of her throat like drops of wine.
"By Jove, Ladybird,—how lovely you look!"
She started, and turned upon him a face of radiance.
"I'm the Golden Butterfly. Do you like me, Theo, really?"
"I do;—no question. Where on earth did you get it all?"
"At Simla, last year. Muriel Walter invented it for me." Her colour deepened, and she lowered her eyes. "I didn't show it to you before,—because——"
"Yes, yes,—I know what you mean. Don't distress yourself over that. You'll have your triumph to-night, Ladybird! Remember my dances, please, when you're besieged by the other fellows! Upon my word, you look such a perfect butterfly that I shall hardly dare lay a hand on you!"
"You may dare, though," she said softly. "I won't break in pieces if you do."
Shy invitation lurked in her look and tone; but apparently her husband failed to perceive it.