'Now, my lord, permit me,' said Phil. 'Hinton and I will engage Mr. Rooney in conversation, while your grace can pass on and mix with the crowd.'
'Walk in, walk in, ladies and—— Ah! how are you, Captain? This is kind of you—— Mr. Hinton, your humble servant—— Whist, dancing, blind-hookey, and negus—walk in—and, Captain Phil,' added he in a whisper, 'a bit of supper by-and-by below-stairs.'
'I must tell you an excellent thing, Rooney, before I forget it,' said O'Grady, turning the host's attention away from the door as he spoke, and inventing some imaginary secret for the occasion; while I followed his grace, who now was so inextricably jammed up in the dense mob that any recognition of him would have been very difficult, if not actually impossible.
For some time I could perceive that the duke's attention was devoted to the conversation about him. Some half-dozen ladies were carrying on a very active and almost acrimonious controversy on the subject of dress; not, however, with any artistic pretension of regulating costume or colour, not discussing the rejection of an old or the adoption of a new mode, but with a much more practical spirit of inquiry they were appraising and valuing each other's finery, in the most sincere and simple way imaginable.
'Seven-and-sixpence a yard, my dear; you 'll never get it less, I assure you.' 'That's elegant lace, Mrs. Mahony; was it run, ma'am?' Mrs. Mahony bridled at the suggestion, and replied that, though neither her lace nor her diamonds were Irish—— 'Six breadths, ma'am, always in the skirt,' said a fat, little, dumpy woman, holding up her satin petticoat in evidence.
'I say, Hinton,' whispered the duke, 'I hope they won't end by an examination of us. But what the deuce is going on here?'
This remark was caused by a very singular movement in the room. The crowd which had succeeded to the dancers, and filled the large drawing-room from end to end, now fell back to either wall, leaving a space of about a yard wide down the entire centre of the room, as though some performance was about to be enacted or some procession to march there.
'What can it be?' said the duke; 'some foolery of O'Grady's, depend upon it; for look at him up there talking to the band.'
As he spoke, the musicians struck up the grand march in Blue Beard, and Mrs. Paul Rooney appeared in the open space, in all the plenitude of her charms—a perfect blaze of rouge, red feathers, and rubies—marching in solemn state. She moved along in time to the music, followed by Paul, whose cunning eyes twinkled with more than a common shrewdness, as he peered here and there through the crowd. They came straight towards where we were standing; and while a whispered murmur ran through the room, the various persons around us drew back, leaving the duke and myself completely isolated. Before his grace could recover his concealment, Mrs. Rooney stood before him. The music suddenly ceased; while the lady, disposing her petticoats as though the object were to conceal all the company behind her, curtsied down to the very floor.
'Ah, your grace,' uttered in an accent of the most melting tenderness, were the only words she could speak, as she bestowed a look of still more speaking softness. 'Ah, did I ever hope to see the day when your Highness would honour——'