"Oh, yes. You want me to stop the Berserk phase. You think I'm at the bottom of it? Well, I've got my share of pride or vanity or whatever you like to call it. I've asked her once, and she turned me down because I wasn't a Catholic. I'm not going to call daily, like a milkman. Do you want me to go to her and say I'm a Catholic?"
Loring shook his head resolutely.
"I'm not going to take the responsibility of that."
"Responsibility be damned! You've taken the responsibility of saying that I've brought about all this trouble and that, apparently, I'm the only person who can stop it. You're not naturally sanctimonious, Jim, but you've got a wonderful passion for not committing yourself. Will you take the responsibility of not repeating our conversation to anybody?"
Loring looked up with startled eyes, but the door slammed before he could answer.
For perhaps three days the success of "The Children's Party," as Barbara's costume ball came to be designated, hung in the balance. Some of those who might not have objected to the ball itself disliked Barbara's association with it and the salvo of press welcome which advertised a private party as though it were a public charity. But, while her critics murmured, Barbara was telephoning, writing and driving round London to divide and win over the enemy, always using the promises of her first victims to persuade the others. If Lady Loring consented to come, who less exalted had the right to raise her voice? Because it had never been done before, was that a reason why it should not be done now? Novelty and organization effected much, curiosity more; for Deganway, with his genius for discovering other people's secrets, published abroad that there had been civil war in Berkeley Square and that the ball was Barbara's declaration of independence.
"The Crawleighs simply don't know what to do!" he exclaimed gleefully on the fourth day of the campaign. "Positively everybody's coming—except the Pebbleridges, of course; I saw Harriet Pebbleridge yesterday, and she's perfectly furious."
"One was told that the parents were formally invited," said Val Arden, "but it was made clear that they must comport themselves as guests. Lady Lilith would receive alone. You are thinking of looking in, George? Yes? One had some difficulty in deciding on a suitable costume. A Modern Financier—after our good Sir Adolf Erckmann? Were one's health more robust, one would be tempted to give a party 'As Others See Us' and to insist that one's guests should each personate a friend. Chastening, chastening! One would expose oneself to indifferent parodies by Lady Maitland, whom one has had the ill fortune to offend...."
For ten days the theatrical costumiers were kept busy. Historic dresses were disinterred, chain armour was taken down from the walls; and there was bitter rivalry between those who simultaneously selected the same character. When every one had made his choice, Barbara intimated that she would like photographs of all; and for another week the studios were thronged. It was agreed at the outset that no one would go to Bodmin Lodge and the Empire Hotel on the same night; and, as the discussion of costumes ruled out every other interest, Barbara found herself besieged with requests for invitations; to be omitted was to be disgraced; and she had the gratification of sending belated cards to more than one critic who in the first excited hours had protested that brute force alone would send her to the Empire Hotel under such auspices.
"It's her Austerlitz and my uncle's Waterloo," said Loring to Jack, when they met two days before the ball. He was careful not to ask what his friend had been doing since last they met. "It's her great vindication; Crawleigh's asked to be allowed to come—to avoid a scandal. She's stampeded London; everybody's accepted, and I believe they'll all come for fear people will think they've not been invited. It's as bad as that."