"The Corso is even gayer than usual," observed Lady Esmondet.
"And with its best bib and tucker on, if I am any judge of la toilette," said Lionel.
"To receive three distingues travellers," laughed Vaura; "I wonder who society will jot us down as in her huge note book."
"As the Briton abroad," said Lady Esmondet, "to revel in the sunbeams, which our gold cannot buy from our leaden skies."
A carriage now passed, in which were seated two ladies, evidently
English, who bowed and smiled to Lady Esmondet and Trevalyon.
"Who are your friends?" enquired Vaura; "I have seen them somewhere, but forget when and where."
"They are the Duchess of Wyesdale and her daughter, the Lady Eveline Northingdon," answered Trevalyon, as Lady Esmondet bowed to other acquaintances.
"The little Duchess, who is insane enough to think Lionel in love with her," thought his friend, remembering gay Mrs. Wingfield's gossip, and that her name had been coupled with Trevalyon's; it was only that she was a foolish little woman, and let society see that she had a penchant for Captain Trevalyon. At that time the Duke was alive to bear the title and represent the estate in Wiltshire, the Scottish moors and shooting box, with the town house in London; very useful in that way, so his Duchess told herself, and in truth, only in that character, did the fair, frivolous Lady Wyesdale appreciate her easygoing fox-hunting spouse.
"You can run the season very well without me," he would say, "while I do a little shooting; you are just cut out for London, while the conventionalities bore me."
And so it came to pass, that at their London house, Irene, the Duchess, (or, as she was commonly called, Posey, from her maiden name of Poseby, and from her habit of posing on all occasions), reigned in her own way. In the autumn of '76, the Duke had been called to his long home; he had been knocking down birds on the Scottish moors. Coming home late one night to dinner in high spirits, and exultant over his full bag, he found a telegram from his friend, Gerald Elton, a keen sportsman, asking him to "telegraph him immediately at Edinburgh, if he was at the 'Bird cage;' if so, he would join him at once." "Bless my life," said poor Wyesdale to a friend with him; "Elton is the very man we want, no end of a shot, and rare fun; but I must send my telegram off at once, or I'll lose him; but how am I to come at pen and ink in the 'cage' is more than I know; oh, yes, I remember when I came down last, Posey would have me take pen and ink (and a great bore it was) in order to telegraph her of my return; don't know why women are such a bundle of nerves, they oughtn't to be nervous at the return of a husband; but where did I put it, hang me if I know; if I find it the boy can ride over with it, if not I must go myself; oh! I remember, it's in the other room on a shelf with collars and cuffs; birds are not particular, so I never wear 'em;" without a light he went in, feeling along the shelves with his hand, unluckily for him overturning the inkstand, knocking the penhandle against the wall, and the rusty pen full of ink, into the palm of his right hand, where it broke; he and his friend extracted most of it, putting sticking plaster over the wound. He would not trust a verbal message to his sleepy keeper, now full of beer; so soon on horseback and away.