"Ay, ma'am; he and Sir Jasper are going to fight this morning. Sir Jasper's going to fight them all, but Lord Verney is to be the first, for Sir Jasper found him kissing Lady Standish yesterday at noon; the others were later on. So it's my Lord comes first you see, ma'am."
"La, girl," cried Mistress Bellairs with a scream, and upset her chocolate, "going to fight this morning? 'Tis not true!" Her pretty face turned as white as chalk under its lace frills.
"Yes, ma'am," pursued the maid, gabbling as hard as she could. "Yes, ma'am, first there's Lord Verney. Sir Jasper, they say, behaved so oddly to Captain Spicer who brought the first challenge, that Lord Verney sent another by a chairman this morning. And then Colonel Villiers. Of course, as Mr. Mahoney says (that's Mr. O'Hara's man, ma'am), Sir Jasper is safe to kill Lord Verney, and Colonel Villiers is safe to kill Sir Jasper. But if the Colonel do not kill Sir Jasper, then Sir Jasper will fight Captain Spicer! La! ma'am, the chocolate's all over the bed."
"Oh, get out of that, you silly wench," cried Mistress Bellairs, "let me rise! There is not a moment to lose. And where is Sir Jasper supposed to fight my Lord Verney? (Give me my silk stockings, useless thing that you are!) I don't believe a word of your story. How dare you come and tell me such a pack of nonsense? But where are they supposed to fight? Of course you must have heard the hour?" She was pulling silk stockings over her little arched foot, and up her little plump leg as fast as her trembling hands would obey her.
"I do not know where, ma'am," said the maid demurely, "but the Colonel is to meet Sir Jasper in Hammer's Fields at noon, so I suppose my Lord Verney and he will be fighting about this time."
"Oh, hold your tongue," cried her mistress; "you're enough to drive one mad with your quacking!"
Not a dab of rouge did the widow find time to spread upon pale cheeks, not a dust of powder upon a black curl. The pretty morning hood was drawn round a very different face from that which it usually shaded; but who shall say that Kitty, the woman, running breathless through the empty streets with the early breeze playing with her loose hair, was not as fair in her complete self-abandonment, as the fashionable lady, powdered, painted, patched and laced, known under the name of Mrs. Bellairs? Her small feet hammered impatiently along, her skirts fluttered as she went. She would not wait for a coach; a chair would have sent her crazy.
At the turning of the Crescent, another fluttering woman's figure, also hooded, also cloaked, also advancing with the haste that despises appearances, passed her with a patter and a flash. They crossed, then moved by the same impulse halted with dawning recognition.
"Mistress Bellairs!" cried Lady Standish's flute-like voice.
"Julia Standish!" screamed Mistress Bellairs. They turned and caught at each other with clinging hands.