ors from you" (she
said this rather reproachfully), "and I dine with him _every_ year on
his birthday! And to think I only came in to see my son for a minute or
two, because I couldn't bear to pass his door ... his very door...."

"Sweet of you," said Valentia.

... "And then to think I should find----" She screamed suddenly.

Daphne had come in, in her green cloak, doublet and hose, and little
green cap, Romer in paint and powder, patches and lace ruffles, sword
and snuffbox. There was a lavish amount of rouge on his cheeks and his
eyes were blacked almost to the temples.

Hearing that his mother was there he had finished the left eye rather
hurriedly, the result being that he looked as if he had been fighting.

While the poor lady was trying to adjust herself to this sight, and
explaining for the sixth time why she was there, and making bitter
remarks about a young girl going to a ball in what she (Mrs. Wyburn)
called trousers, and while Daphne kept on wrapping herself in the folds
of her cloak and then undoing them again to show her nice high boots,
she was still more distressed at the arrival of her _bete noire_ and
mortal enemy, Harry de Freyne.

Van Buren had sent his motor for them, containing Harry.

Had his name not been announced by the servant, Mrs. Wyburn would
certainly not have recognised Harry. He was a pierrot in white satin,
with a violet tulle ruffle round his neck and a black velvet mask. One
would know him solely by his single eye-glass, his pleasant voice, and
fluent conversation.

Pretending to be a clown he jumped in, bowed low to Mrs. Wyburn, and
kissed first Daphne and then Valentia.

With a last-straw expression Mrs. Wyburn drew herself up to her full
height.

"Give me my cloak, Romer. I must go. No, don't come to the carriage with
me. Suppose the Trott-Hellyers were to see you--they'd never get over
it!"

"Why, it's all right, mother," Romer answered. "I'm all right. I'm a
courtier--of the tenth century--you know. I'm all right."

"And you approve of your young sister-in-law going to a public ball
dressed up as a man?"

"Rosalind wasn't a man, mother. You forget; you must read the _Midsummer
Night's Dream_ again. You've forgotten it."

"I shan't find Rosalind there. But that's not the point. When I came in
I found Valentia with that man--the man who writes in purple
knickerbockers----"

"No, he doesn't--he never writes in purple knickerbockers."

"Is this meant to be witty