d creeps into your soul, and clogs your brain," adds Giddy,
"the yellow land of mist is not attractive."

"No one will turn up at your party to-morrow," says Eleanor, "if it
doesn't lift."

"I never thought of that. The professionals will be stuck on the line,
perhaps, and we shall have a songless, tuneless 'musical,' with only
locals to eat our cakes."

"My husband has promised to fetch me to-morrow; I must be back in town
by seven, for two or three evening engagements," says Lady MacDonald.

"Then I am glad mine is an afternoon," murmurs Giddy, "or I should not
have secured you. It is delightful of dear Lord MacDonald to drive
down."

"Oh! he always does what I tell him," she replies, with a superior
smile.

She has a quantity of jingling golden ornaments hanging from a
chatelaine at her waist, a gold crown on the handle of her _lorgnette_,
and so many rings on her long pink fingers that they bulge over her
knuckles. Her nails are manicured to appear almost crimson, her teeth
are shining white under her curved lips, that look capable of bitter
sayings and smiles of scorn.

"The fire is too hot," she says, laying one soft hand against a still
softer cheek. Her complexion is a marvel. Eleanor hands her a painted
screen.

"What a charming picture," continues Lady MacDonald. "I adore nymphs.
Did you paint this, Mrs. Roche?"

"Yes," replied Giddy, "Eleanor is a perfect artist."

Eleanor raises her eyebrows, staring at Giddy in amazement, never
having touched a brush in her life.

"Do you exhibit?"

Giddy again answers for Eleanor.

"Mr. Roche won't let her, he thinks any publicity _infra dig._ for a
woman."

"Perhaps he is right," says Lady MacDonald; "I know Edward won't allow
me to pen a line for the press, though I have quite a genius for
scribbling. He is so cross because people get my picture sometimes for
the Society papers. I have to hide them away from him. The last one
caught his eye hung up on a bookstall, and he was nearly suffocated
with wrath on the spot, and could not speak for three minutes."

"The penalty of beauty," cries Giddy gaily.

"Are you one of the types of English beauty?" asks Eleanor.

"Oh! no. Nothing so common. I leave that to Irish belles, and ladies
of the ballet."

She raises her delicate chin, and rests her languid eyes on Mrs. Roche.

The door opens, and Sarah's voice announces:

"Mr. and Mrs. Grebby!"

[Illustration: "Mr. and Mrs. Grebby!"]

Elean