"You're going, of course? Lady M. told me the other day she
must have
you."
Cliffe, still a little morose, replied that his invitation had been
waiting for him at his London rooms. He gave the information carelessly,
as though it did not matter to him a straw. In reality, as soon as,
while still in America, he had seen the announcement of the bail in one
of the New York papers, he had written at once to the Marchioness who
was to give it--an old acquaintance of his--practically demanding an
invitation. It had been sent indeed with alacrity, and without waiting
for its arrival Cliffe had ordered his dress in Paris. Kitty inquired
what it was to be.
"I told my man to copy a portrait of Alva."
"Ah, that's right," said Kitty, nodding--"that's right. Only it would
have been better if it had been Torquemada."
Rather nettled, Cliffe asked what there might be about him that so
forcibly suggested the Grand Inquisitor. Kitty, cigarette in hand, with
half-shut eyes, did not answer immediately. She seemed to be perusing
his face with difficulty.
"Strength, I suppose," she said at last, slowly. Cliffe waited, then
burst into a laugh.
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