“Denis, my love—Stafford, my old friend—we have, each of us, I dare say, things against each other to forgive and forget, but for my part ’tis all done with already.”
“Ah, my Lady Kilcroney. Ah, Kitty!” cried the Beau, moved out of his wont, and pressing the little hand against his breast, before lifting it to his lips, “When I received your note warning me of the ass I would be making of myself in trying to get the better of you, I thought—dash me, I thought—there’s not a woman in the world to compare to her for generosity and wit! And how, in the name of God, did you know, Kitty?” he cried, with a change of tone. “’Pon my soul, never tell me that piece, Molly, betrayed me for an invitation?”
“By no means, sir, the invitation was sent to her—well! as a little punishment. She came all agog to see my discomfiture, and Lydia, my woman, tells me she was so overset at the sight of His Highness that she swooned.”
My Lord by this time had an arm about his wife’s waist.
“’Twas I told me wife,” said he in his richest brogue, “of your dastardly plot, me fine fellow.”
“You?”
“Ay, meself and no other.”
“But this is mystery upon mystery,” said Mr. Stafford, and he was really mystified.
“A little bird told me,” said Kilcroney, wagging his head.
Kitty interrupted, laughing.