Quin, apparently, had not been willing to desert his slummers for a gay
West-end theatre; so Hal was only escorted by two Graces instead of
three, but the light in her eyes, for any one near enough to see,
suggested she was enjoying herself to the utmost in spite of it.

Then came the final sensation, of the little old lady in her strange
costume and ringlets, passing through the vestibule, on the arm of the
young giant, followed by the sleek-looking, well-groomed pair of
cousins, who chatted to each other with an air of the utmost unconcern
towards the curious glances now levelled at them upon all sides.

"It _must_ be Lady Phyllis Fenton," said some. "It _can't_ be," said
others. "Then who the devil is it?" asked the men.

And still the little group passed on, smiling and unconcerned, though a
red spot burned in the giant's smooth cheeks, and he carefully avoided
any possibility of meeting Hal's gleaming eyes.

A roomy electric brougham was awaiting them, and then the watchers said
it glided away: "Surely that is Lady Phyllis's car and liveries?"

But what they would have made of the scene inside the car it is
difficult to say, for the dear little old lady suddenly collapsed
backwards on her seat, with a howl of laughter, and shot into the air a
pair of trousered legs.

"Oh my conscience!" gasped Quin, amid choking laughter. "It will be
the sensation of the season; and when Aunt Phyllis gets to hear about
it she'll first have a fit with wrath and then laugh until she's ill."