he ceiling above her, Tiepolo
had painted a headlong group of sensuous forms, alive with vulgar
movement and passion; the <i>putti</i> and the goddesses, peering through
aerial balustrades, looked down complacently on Madame d'Estrees.

Meanwhile there stood behind her--a silent, distinguished figure--the
man of whom Harman saw that she was always nervously and sometimes
timidly conscious. Harman had been reading Moliere's <i>Don Juan</i>. The
sentinel figure of Warington mingled in his imagination with the statue
of the Commander.

Or, again, he was tickled by a vision of Madame d'Estrees grown old,
living in a Scotch house, turreted and severe, tended by servants of the
"Auld Licht," or shivering under a faithful minister on Sundays. Had she
any idea of the sort of fold towards which Warington--at once Covenanter
and man of the world--was carrying his lost sheep?

The sheep, however, was still gambolling at large. Occasionally a guest
appeared who proved it. For instance, at a certain tumultuous entrance,
billowing skirts, vast hat, and high-pitched voice all combining in the
effect, Madame d'Estrees flushed violently, and Warington's stiffness
redoubled. On the threshold stood the young actress, Mademoiselle Ricci,
a Marseillaise, half French, half Italian, who was at the moment the
talk of Venice. Why, would take too long to tell. It was by no means
mostly due to her talent, which, however, was displayed at the Apollo
theatre two or three times a week, and was no doubt considerable. She
was a flamboyant lady, with astonishing black eyes, a too transparent
white dress, over which was slung a small black mantilla, a scarlet hat
and parasol, and a startling fan of the same color. Both before and
after her greeting of Madame d'Estrees--whom she called her "cherie" and
her "belle Marguerite"--she created a whirlwind in the <i>salon</i>. She was
noisy, rude, and false; it could only be said on the other side that she
was handsome--for those who admired the kind of thing; and famous--more
or less. The intimacy of the party was broken up by her, for wherever
she was she brought uproar, and it was impossible to forget her. And
this uneasy attention which she compelled was at its height when the
door was once more thrown open for the entrance of Lady Kitty Ashe.

"Ah, my darling Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrees, rising in a soft
enthusiasm.

Kitty came in slowly, holding herself very erect, a delicate and
distinguished fig