“Never to be remembered by her. I prithee, Kate.”
She could not; it stuck in her throat; but she conceded this much—she waved him with her hand towards the other two, where they stood together. Hamilton made the best of it.
“Will you, Phil?” says he, skipping up before, with a killing smile for the lady.
Chesterfield had no choice but to respond.
“Mrs. Davis,” he said, in a voice that seemed to carry an oath behind it; “this is my friend, Mr. George Hamilton.”
Moll curtsied, “a wicked little winkle” in her eye; and the gentleman, left hand on chest, right extended, and right toe advanced and pointed, swept a bow the very exaggeration of courtly.
“Charmed,” said he.
“Sure,” said Moll.
“You were speaking,” said he, “when it was my misfortune to interrupt you.”
“Was I?” said she. “Now I remember—it was about Kit.”