His arm-chair was opposite the door, which had now been quietly opened; a fine portly gentleman walked in as if the place belonged to him.
“Tare and ’ounds, lads,” cried the Irishman, under his breath. “Here’s His Royal Highness!” and sprang to his feet.
The next instant the club-room rang with shouts of mirth.
“By the Holy Father! Stafford! Ned, me boy, I took you for the Prince of Wales. ’Pon me living soul, I did. Oh, Ned, Ned! ’tis the fill of your waistcoat you are, and no mistake.”
“His Highness ought to be flattered,” said Mr. Stafford, who was not.
Miss Pamela Pounce was deposited at The White Hart, Weymouth, by the midday coach, having slept at Dorchester.
She looked as crisp and modish as one of her own hats, as she tripped along the parade towards my Lady Kilcroney’s lodgings, followed by a porter who moved in a perfect grove of bandboxes.
Miss Pounce had travelled to Weymouth with a selection of hats and heads for the tempting of her fashionable clientele. Born business woman as she was, she carried her unerring instinct into every detail, such as that very halt at Dorchester, which enabled her to impress at once by her appetising freshness and her air of not having lost a minute in providing an esteemed customer with the very latest; “piping hot,” as she herself expressed it.
She had no hesitation in the choice of her first patroness. My Lady Kilcroney gave the lead and Madame Mirabel’s partner only spoke the truth when she averred that she had rather have my Lady’s custom than that of Queen Charlotte and all the Princesses.