As a matter of fact, Sir James was dominated by what are called mixed
feelings. The letter that he read and re-read as he walked about his
library enchanted him. But the appearance of that library was maddening.
It had been transformed into a ladies' cloak-room. On his own
writing-desk were an oval silver mirror, a large powder-puff, and
several packets of hairpins. All trace of politics seemed to have been
completely wiped out. Sir James thoroughly enjoyed picturing to himself
Mr. Ridokanaki in this room on the following morning, asking for a
blessing, on his knees, and to fancy himself saying solemnly, "Take
her, my boy, she is yours!" or words to that effect.

Not only had the trillionaire sent Sylvia six feet of flowers in a
gun-metal motor-car studded with sapphires, but Sir James, also, had
received a respectful request (practically a species of royal command)
for consent to his addresses. Ridokanaki stated that he had not as yet,
of course, said anything to Sylvia, but proposed, unless her father
objected, to try to win her fair hand that very evening. It was a
triumph, even for Sylvia. Sir James laughed, as he only laughed when
alone. But on looking up from the letter what he saw jarred on him. How
he could well imagine the wrap that would be placed carelessly over the
bust of Pitt in the corner, and all the cloaks and frivolous chiffons
which would lie on that solemn study table! Rage had the upper hand. Sir
James broke out, and rang the bell violently.

"Price, where's Miss Crofton? Tell her I want her immediately. This
instant! Lose no time. But tell her on no account to hurry. In fact, any
time will do as long as she comes at once. Wait a moment, wait a moment.
Don't be so precipitate, Price. You leave the room before you hear your
orders. I've had to speak to you about this before.... Is Miss Crofton
dressed yet?"

"Yes, Sir James. Miss Crofton is quite ready. Lady Chetwode is with
her."

"Oh! then tell her it doesn't matter. She needn't trouble."

"Yes, Sir James."

* * * * *

The sisters were standing in Sylvia's pale blue bedroom in front of the
long mirror. Felicity's fair, almost silvery hair, puffed out round her
wilful little face, looked as though it were _poudre_. She wore a
striped brocade gown all over rosebuds, and resembled a Dresden china
figure. Sylvia's exquisitely modelled face and white shoulders emerged
from clouds of grey tulle.

"It's rather a s