“Yes,” said the princess, at first with languor, but then,—“What mean those words, ‘Nobody but Parry;’ say, my lord?”
“Because, madam,” replied Buckingham, piqued, “because the faithful Parry, the wandering Parry, the eternal Parry, is not, I believe, of much consequence.”
“You are mistaken, duke. Parry—the wandering Parry, as you call him—has always wandered in the service of my family, and the sight of that old man always gives me satisfaction.”
The Lady Henrietta followed the usual progress of pretty women, particularly coquettish women; she passed from caprice to contradiction;—the gallant had undergone the caprice, the courtier must bend beneath the contradictory humor. Buckingham bowed, but made no reply.
“It is true, madam,” said Rochester, bowing in his turn, “that Parry is the model of servants; but, madam, he is no longer young, and we laugh only when we see cheerful objects. Is an old man a gay object?”
“Enough, my lord,” said the princess, coolly; “the subject of conversation is unpleasant to me.”
Then, as if speaking to herself, “It is really unaccountable,” said she, “how little regard my brother’s friends have for his servants.”
“Ah, madam,” cried Buckingham, “your royal highness pierces my heart with a dagger forged by your own hands.”
“What is the meaning of that speech, which is turned so like a French madrigal, duke? I do not understand it.”
“It means, madam, that you yourself, so good, so charming, so sensible, you have laughed sometimes—smiled, I should say—at the idle prattle of that good Parry, for whom your royal highness to-day entertains such a marvelous susceptibility.”