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ve had to speak to you about this before.... Is Miss Crofton dressed yet?"
"Yes, Sir James. Miss Crofton is quite ready. Lady Chetwode is with her."
"Oh! then tell her it doesn't matter. She needn't trouble."
"Yes, Sir James."
"Hardly, dear. Put it on to go and meet him at the station," said Sylvia, rather unpractically. "No, you're not too last-century. I think you look more like the next."
"Well, I hope so," said Felicity, fluttering a tiny Pompadour fan; "and if De Valdez says I look like a Marquise of the olden times, as he once did, I simply won't stand it. Let's go down. But first tell me what you will say when Mr. Rid ... Oh, bother, I can't say all that. Let us call him the man. 'Miss Crofton, might I respectfully venture to presume to propose to hope to ask to have a word with you? You are like a grey rose', or something or other."
"Oh, don't be absurd. Sometimes I think the whole thing is all your fancy, and Savile's."
"My fancy! Then what was that enormous, immense thing in the hall I fell over--a sort of tin jewelled bath, crammed with orchids and carnations? Frank Woodville was helping Price to cart it away, and trying to break some of the flowers by accident."
"Oh, was Mr. Woodville taking it away?" Sylvia smiled.
At that moment a firm knock at the door, and the words, "I say, Sylvia," announced Savile's entrance. He walked in slowly, brushed his sisters aside like flies, and stood looking at himself in the long mirror, which reached nearly from the ceiling to the floor. It was a solemn moment. He was wearing his very first evening-dress suit.
They watched him breathlessly. He carefully kept every trace of expression out of his face. Then he sat down, and said seriously to himself--
Suddenly remembering his broken heart, Savile paused at the door, caught Felicity's eye, and sighed with an effort, heavily. Then, with his usual air of polite self-restraint, out of proportion to the occasion, he left the room.
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