“You think that The Scarlet Pimpernel is dead, Mr. Clutterbuck? That those horrible Frenchies murdered him? Surely you don't mean that?” sighed Mistress Polly ruefully.
Mr. Clutterbuck put his hand up to his hat, preparatory no doubt to making another appeal to the mysterious poets, but was interrupted in the very act of uttering great thoughts by a loud and prolonged laugh which came echoing from a distant corner of the grounds.
“Lud! but I'd know that laugh anywhere,” said Mistress Quekett, whilst all eyes were turned in the direction whence the merry noise had come.
Half a head taller than any of his friends around him, his lazy blue eyes scanning from beneath their drooping lids the motley throng around him, stood Sir Percy Blakeney, the centre of a gaily-dressed little group which seemingly had just crossed the toll-gate.
“A fine specimen of a man, for sure,” remarked Johnnie Cullen, the apprentice.
“Aye! you may take your Bible oath on that!” sighed Mistress Polly, who was inclined to be sentimental.
“Speakin' as the poets,” pronounced Mr. Clutterbuck sententiously, “inches don't make a man.”
“Nor fine clothes neither,” added Master Jezzard, who did not approve of Mistress Polly's sentimental sigh.
“There's my lady!” gasped Miss Barbara suddenly, clutching Master Clutterbuck's arm vigorously. “Lud! but she is beautiful to-day!”
Beautiful indeed, and radiant with youth and happiness, Marguerite Blakeney had just gone through the gates and was walking along the sward towards the band stand. She was dressed in clinging robes of shimmery green texture, the new-fashioned high-waisted effect suiting her graceful figure to perfection. The large Charlotte, made of velvet to match the gown, cast a deep shadow over the upper part of her face, and gave a peculiar softness to the outline of her forehead and cheeks.