These Old Shades

resemble a coiffure. The friseur had worked wonders. The curls clustered thickly about the queenly little head, and just one had been coaxed to fall to the shoulder.

“It could not be better!” said my lady. “Give me the haresfoot, wench!”

Leonie’s maid handed it to her, and stood ready with the various pots.

“Just a touch of rouge, I think,” said Fanny. “The veriest suspicion—so! The lip-stick, girl! . . . Keep still, my love; I must not overdo it. There! Powder, girl!” The haresfoot fluttered over Leonie’s face. My lady studied the effect intently. “It’s very well. Now for the patches! Two, I think. Don’t wriggle, child!” Expert fingers pressed the patches on: one below the dimple, one above the cheekbone. “Famous!” cried my lady. “Mercy, look at the time! I must hurry! Stand up, Leonie, and you, girl, hand me the dress!”

Leonie stood up in her under-dress of lace, ruffle upon ruffle of it falling over a great hoop to her ankles, and watched my lady shake out the folds of soft white brocade. Fanny flung it deftly over her head, so that not a hair was disturbed, pulled it over the hoop, twitched it into place, and told the maid to lace it up. Leonie’s feet peeped from beneath the lace petticoat in shoes of white satin with heels that were studded with tiny diamonds. Buckles flashed on them—yet another present from Avon. Leonie pointed her toe, and regarded the effect gravely.

Fanny came to arrange a lace fichu about Leonie’s shoulders. Out of the lace they rose, sloping and very white. Fanny shook out the ruffles, tied the ribbons, and fastened the two other roses into place over the knot with a pearl pin.

“Why, madame, what is that?” asked Leonie quickly. “It is not mine, I know!”

Fanny kissed her lightly.

“Oh, it is naught but a trifle, my love, that I had a mind to give you! I beg you will not heed it!”

Leonie flushed.

“Madame, you are very good to me! Thank you!”

Someone scratched on the door; the abigail went to open it, and came back into the room with a small silver tray, on which were two packages, and white roses in a silver holder.

“For mademoiselle,” smiled the maid.

Leonie ran forward.

“For me? Who sent them?” She bent over the tray to read the cards. “Rupert—M. Marling—M. Davenant! But how they are kind! Why do you all give me presents, madame?”

“My sweet, ’tis your first appearance. I suspect Hugh asked Justin what flowers he should send.” She picked up the bouquet. “See, child, the holder is so cunningly wrought! What says the card?”

Leonie held it between her fingers.

“‘To Leon, from Hugh Davenant.’ Voyons, I am not Leon to-night, but Mademoiselle de Bonnard! What can this be?—from M. Marling—oh, the little ring! Madame, look!” She slipped the wrappings from the last package, and disclosed a fan of delicately painted chicken-skin mounted on ivory sticks. “Oh, this clever Rupert! Madame, how did he know I wanted a fan?”

Fanny shook her head mysteriously.

“La, child, don’t ask me! Stop skipping round the room, stupid! Where are Justin’s pearls?”

“Oh, the pearls!” Leonie ran to the dressing-table, and extracted the long, milky string from one of the boxes there.

Fanny twisted it twice round her neck, cast another distracted glance at the clock, sprinkled scent on to a handkerchief, and over Leonie, gave a last twitch to the brocade gown, and hurried to the door.

“You will be so late!” Leonie cried. “All because you dressed me. I will wait for you, madame, shall I?”

“Yes, child, of course! I want to be there when Jus—when they see you. Come and sit with me while I finish my toilette.”

But Leonie was in no mood to sit still. She paraded in front of the mirror, curtsied to herself, fluttered her fan, and sniffed at her roses.

Rachel worked swiftly to-night, and soon my lady stood up in a gown of rose silk, with a petticoat of silver lace, and the most enormous hoop Leonie had ever seen. My lady whisked the haresfoot across her face again, slipped bracelets on to her arms, and fixed nodding feathers into her marvellous coiffure.

“Oh madame, it is very fine, I think!” said Leonie, pausing in her perambulations to and fro.

My lady pulled a face at her own reflection.

“It matters naught what I look like to-night,” she said. “Do you like the silver lace, child? And the shoes?” She lifted her skirts and showed a pretty ankle.

“Yes, madame. I like it—oh, much! Now let us go downstairs and show Monseigneur!”

“I am with you in a moment, my sweet life. Rachel, my fan and gloves! Leonie, hold your bouquet in the other hand, and slip the riband of your fan over your wrist. Yes, that is excellent. Now I am ready.”

“I am so excited I feel as though I should burst!” said Leonie.

“Child! Remember you are to put a guard on your tongue! Let me hear no ‘bursts’ or ‘pig-persons’ on your lips to-night, as you love me.”

“No, madame, I will remember. And not ‘breeches’ either!”

“Certainly not!” tittered Fanny, and sailed out to the staircase. At the head of it she paused, and stood aside. “Go before me, child. Slowly, slowly! Oh dear, you will break hearts, I know!” But this she said to herself.

Leonie went sedately down the broad stairway that was brilliantly lit to-night with branches of tall candles set in the niches of the wall. Below, in the hall, gathered about the fire, the gentlemen were waiting, his Grace with orders glittering on a coat of purple satin; Lord Rupert in pale blue, with much rich lacing, and an elegant flowered waistcoat; Marling in puce; and Davenant in maroon. Leonie paused half-way down the stairs and unfurled her fan.

“But look at me!” she said reprovingly.

They turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and saw her with candles on either side, a little figure, all white, from the ordered curls to the jewelled heels: white brocade cut low across the shoulders, white lace to form a petticoat, white roses at her breast and in her hand. Only her eyes were deep, sparkling blue, and her parted lips like cherries, her cheeks faintly flushed.

“You beauty!” gasped Rupert. “By—Gad, you beauty!”

His Grace went forward to the foot of the stairs, and held out his hands.

“Come, ma belle!”

She ran down to him. He bowed low over her hand, whereat she blushed, and curtsied a little way.

“I am nice, Monseigneur, do you not think? Lady Fanny did it all, and see, Monseigneur, she gave me this pin, and Rupert gave me the flow—no, the fan. It was M. Davenant gave me the flowers, and M. Marling this pretty ring!” She danced over to where they stood, just staring at her. “Thank you very much, all of you! Rupert, you are very grand to-night! I have never seen you so—so tidy, and tout r fait beau!”

Lady Fanny came down the stairs.

“Well, Justin? Have I succeeded?”

“My dear, you have surpassed yourself.” His eyes ran over her. “Your own toilette leaves nothing to be desired.”

“Oh!” She shrugged her shoulders. “I am naught to-night.”

“You are trcs grande dame, my dear,” he said.

“That, perhaps,” she nodded. “It was my intention.”

Rupert lifted his quizzing-glass.

“You always look a beauty, Fan, I’ll say that for you.”

The lackeys about the great doorway suddenly sprang to attention.

“La, are they arriving already?” cried my lady. “Come, child!” She led the way into the big ballroom, that ran the length of the house. Leonie looked about her appreciatively.

“Voyons, this pleases me!” she said, and went up to one of the great baskets of flowers to inspect the frail blooms. “We are all very grand, and so is the house. Monseigneur, Rupert is beautiful, is he not?”

Avon surveyed his tall, rakish young brother.

“Would you call him beautiful?” he drawled.

“Devil take you, Justin!” spluttered his lordship.

A footman stood in the wide doorway, and rolled forth names. Rupert effaced himself, and Lady Fanny went