"Indeed it is. The man who does not know how to dress a woman's hair misses one of the greatest delights in life. That is why, my dear friend, your art was the most agreeable to Venus; and Mons. Lebeau, my tutor, a man-of-the-world, failed not to give me ample instruction."
"Well, I am flambergasted now!"
"Make haste to pull yourself together and be off, or you will take more cold on this staircase. Quick; hand me the comb, the powder, and the patch-box. Good night, Fisher; take good care of yourself. Devil, man! You'll find you cannot trifle with a fever."
A minute later the false hairdresser, having duly knocked at the door and received permission to enter, walked into a narrow room in which Miss Woodville was dressing, assisted by a maid, under the watchful direction of her aunt, Mrs. Marsham.
"Come, Mr. Fisher," said Esther without looking at the intruder, "we must make haste or I shall be late. Make me just as pretty as you possibly can, for the king will be in the audience."
"I shall do my best, Miss Woodville."
"But this man is not Fisher!" cried the old lady.
Esther cast one swift glance at Mowbray, caught the kerchief about her shoulders, and mechanically plunged her blushing face into the ivory horn which served to protect her eyes and lashes while her hair was being powdered.
The young nobleman respectfully saluted the Quakeress.
"Mr. Fisher is ill," he exclaimed.