It is the middle of July, but the London season has not, as yet, shown any symptoms of being on the wane, and the drawing-room of the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks is arranged for the reception of visitors. Curtains of guipure lace, looped with pale-blue ribbons, shroud every window, purple irises and yellow jonquils as displayed in art needlework, adorn each chair and sofa; fanciful little tables of silk and velvet, laden with Sevres and Dresden china are placed in everybody’s way, and a powerful odour of hot-house flowers pervades the apartment. A double knock sounds at the door, and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks starts from the dose into which she has fallen, and seizing a novel, sits u…
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