"Fanchette can make your dress?"
"She says she will, but I couldn't make her understand anything I wanted. She is off her head! They all are. By-the-way, did you hear of Madeleine Alcot's. telegram to Worth?"
"No."
Kitty laughed—a laugh musical but malicious. Mrs. Alcot, married in the same month as herself, had been her companion and rival from the beginning. They called each other "Kitty" and "Madeleine," and saw each other frequently; why, Lady Tranmore could never discover, unless on the principle that it is best to keep your enemy under observation.
"She telegraphed to Worth as soon as her invitation arrived, 'Envoyez tout de suite costume Vénus. Réponse.' The answer came at dinner—she had a dinner-party—and she read it aloud: 'Remercîments. Il n'y en a pas.' Isn't it delightful?"
"Very neat," said Lady Tranmore, smiling. "When did you invent that? You, I hear, are to be Diana?"
Kitty made a gesture of despair.
"Ask Fanchette—it depends on her. There is no one but she in London who can do it. Oh, by-the-way, what's Mary going to be? I suppose a Madonna of sorts."
"Not at all," said Lady Tranmore, dryly; "she has chosen a Sir Joshua costume I found for her."
"A vocation missed," said Kitty, shaking her head. "She ought to have been a 'Vestal Virgin' at least.... Do you know that you look such a duck this afternoon!" The speaker put up two small hands and pulled and patted at the black lace strings of Lady Tranmore's hat, which were tied under the delicately wrinkled white of her very distinguished chin.