“Oh, turn, love, I prythee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the only one, love, that art ador’d by me”;
so sweet and unexpected, they all whisked about in surprise to mark the singer. She loitered, in seeming unconsciousness of their neighbourhood, among the beds, a slender girl figure, on whose face, as she stooped and rose, the sunlight went and came as if it fought her for a kiss. She looked a very stillroom fairy of the gardens, herself expressed from all their daintiest scents and colours.
And so, no doubt, the men thought; but, for my lady Chesterfield, the apparition wrought in her a revulsion of feeling which was as instant as it was startling. Her wrongs, the empty vanity of her scruples, all rushed upon her in a moment, and she stood stock still. And then she gave a chill little laugh, a woman of ice in a moment, and said she, small and quiet—
“But it were ill manners for a hostess to desert her guest; and after all, Dick, thou art the musician to feel a musician’s needs.”
My lord looked suddenly gratified.
“Ath you will, thithter Kit,” said he; “unless your friend outthide would prefer your company.”
“Friend!” cried her ladyship; “she is no friend of mine.”
“Of whoth, then?”
“You may ask her if you will. Nay, I see that you are all excitement to put his Highness’s pleasant fancy to the test. Go, then—leave your sister, and gather flowers.”