She was radiant.

She had a gown of shot brocade, a high lace ruff and a silver girdle of old German work, that had an ivory missal falling from it.

“Quarrelsome, quarrelling kings,” she stuttered, drifting towards a toilet-table—the very one before which Miss Sinquier was making her face.

On all sides from every lip rose up a chorus of congratulations.

“Viva, Lady Mary!”

Touched, responsive, with a gesture springing immediately from the heart, the consummate Victorian extended impulsive happy hands.

“God bless you, dears,” she said.

“Three cheers for Lady Mary!”

The illustrious woman quashed a tear.

“Am I white behind?” she asked.