When morning came, I was sullenly resigned to the worst.  “Kismet!” said I, as I unfolded her ladyship’s dresses, and was blinded by the glare of the scarlet satin.

“Try it on,” commanded my mistress.  “I want to get an idea how you will look.”

Naturally, the red thing was a Directoire thing; and putting it on over my snug little black frock, I was like a cricket crawling into an empty lobster-shell.  But to my surprise and annoyance, the lobster-shell was actually becoming to the cricket.

I didn’t want to look nice and be a credit to Lady Turnour.  I wanted to look a fright, and didn’t care if I were a disgrace to her.  But the startling scarlet satin was Liberty satin, and therefore had a sheen, and a soft way of folding that redeemed it somewhat.  Its bright poppy colour, its emerald beetle-wings shading to gold, and its glittering fringes that waved like a wheat-field stirred by a breeze, all gave a bizarre sort of “value,” as artists say, to my pale yellow hair and dark eyes.  I couldn’t help seeing that the dreadful dress made my skin pearly white; and I was afraid that, when I had altered the thing, instead of looking like a frump, I should only present the appearance of a rather fast little actress.  I should be looked at in my scarlet abomination.  People would stare, and smile.  The Duchesse de Melun would say to the Marquise de Roquemartine:  “Who is that young person?  She looks exactly like someone I know—­that little Lys d’Angely the millionaire-man, Charretier, is so silly about.”

“You see, you can alter it very easily,” said Lady Turnour.

“Yes, miladi.”

“Have you got any dancing slippers?”

“No—­that is—­I don’t know—­”

“Don’t be stupid.  I will give you ten francs to buy yourself a pair of red stockings and red slippers to match.  The stockings needn’t be silk.  They won’t show much.  Dane can take you in the car to Clermont-Ferrand this afternoon.  I want you to be all right, from head to feet—­different from any of the other maids.”

I didn’t doubt that I would be different—­very different.

Tap, tap, a knock at the door.

“Ontray!” cried her ladyship.

The door opened.  Mr. Herbert Stokes stood on the threshold.

“I say, Lady T—­” he began, when he saw the scarlet vision, and stopped.

“What is it?” inquired the wife of his stepfather—­rather a complicated relation.

“I—­er—­wanted—­” drawled Bertie.  “But it doesn’t matter.  Another time.”

“You needn’t mind her,” said Lady Turnour, with a nod toward me.  “It’s only my maid.  I’m giving her a dress for the servants’ ball to-night.”

Bertie gave vent to the ghost of a whistle, below his breath.  He looked at me, twisting the end of his small fair moustache, as he had looked at Jack Dane last night; and though his expression was different, I liked it no better.

“Thought it was a new guest,” said he.