Alcot, with affected resignation, "and
the servants are quite prepared. Kitty asks everybody to lunch--then
somebody asks her--and she forgets. It's quite simple."
"Quite," said Cliffe, buttoning up his coat, "but I think I shall go to
the club."
He was looking for his hat, when again there was a commotion on the
stairs--a high voice giving orders--and in burst Kitty. She stood still
as soon as she saw her guests, talking so fast and pouring out such a
flood of excuses that no one could get in a word. Then she flew to each
guest in turn, taking them by both hands--Darrell only excepted--and
showing herself so penitent, amusing, and charming that everybody was
propitiated. It was Fanchette, of course--Fanchette the criminal, the
incomparable. Her dress for the ball. Kitty raised eyes and hands to
heaven--it would be a marvel, a miracle. Unless, indeed, she were lying
cold and quiet in her little grave before the time came to wear it. But
Fanchette's tempers--Fanchette's caprices--no! Kitty began to mimic the
great dressmaker torn to pieces by the crowd of fashionable ladies,
stopping abruptly in the middle to say to Cliffe:
"You were going away? I saw you take up your hat.
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