in the room.

"I'm dying of thirst," she said; "take me in and be kind to me and
give me tea."

Lucia rose and went to the window, reluctant but resigned. Scraps of
their conversation floated down to Mr. Rickman's end of the room.

"Yes, you may well look at my hat."

"I wasn't looking at it, I was looking through it."

"Well, if you can see through my hat, Lucia, you can see through me.
What do you think of it?"

"Of the hat? Oh, the hat is a poem."

"Isn't it? Did you ever see anything so inspired, so impassioned?"

"Inspired, but--don't you think--just a little, a little meaningless?"

"Meaningless? It's _packed_ with meaning."

"I should like to know what it means."

"If it means nothing else it means that I've been going to and fro
the whole blessed afternoon, paying calls in Harmouth for my sins."

"Poor Kitty."

"The last three times I paid calls in Harmouth," said poor Kitty, "I
sported a cycling skirt, the blousiest of blouses, and a tam-o'shanter
over my left ear. Of course everybody was in. So I thought if I went
like this--brand new frock--swagger hat--white gloves--that everybody
would be out."

"And were they?"

"No. Just like my luck--they were all--all in!"

"And yet you have the audacity to come here and ask for tea?"

"For Goodness' sake, don't talk of tea."

"I thought you were so thirsty."

"So I am. I thirst for amusement."

"Kitty! You've been amusing yourself all afternoon--at other people's
expense."

"Yes. It's cheap--awfully cheap, but fatiguing. I don't want to amuse
myself; I want to be amused."

Mr. Rickman took a longer look at the brilliant apparition.

Now, at a little distance, Miss Palliser passed as merely an ordinary
specimen of a brilliant but conventional type. This effect was an
illusion produced by her irreproachably correct attire. As she drew
nearer it became apparent that convention could never have had very
much to do with her. Tailor and milliner were responsible for the
general correctness of Miss Palliser's appearance, Miss Palliser
herself for the riot and confusion of the details. Her coat, flung
open, displayed a tangle of laces disposed after her own fancy. Her
skirts, so flawless and sedate, swept as if inspired by the storm of
her long-legged impetuous stride. Under her too, too fashionable hat
her brown hair was twisted in a way entirely her own; and fashion had
left untouched the wild originality of her face. Bumpy brows, jutting
eyebr