Rhoda is taken in the trap.
“That busy hive, the world,
And all its thousand stings.”
Phoebe sat still for a while in her corner, watching the various members of the party as they flitted in and out: for the scene was now becoming diversified by the addition of elder persons. Ere long, two gentlemen in evening costume, engaged in conversation, came and stood close by her. One of them, as she soon discovered, was Sir Richard Delawarr.
“’Tis really true, then,” demanded the other—a round-faced man, with brilliant eyes, who was attired as a dignitary of the Church—“’tis really true, Sir, that the Queen did forbid the visit of the Elector?”
“I had it from an excellent hand, I assure you,” returned Sir Richard. “Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that ’twas the main cause of her sudden death.”
“It really was so?”
“Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs Rosamond Harley.”
“Ha! then ’tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, of D’Urfey’s jest on the Princess Sophia?—ha, ha, ha!” and the Bishop laughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly.
“No, I scarce think I did, my Lord.”
“Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queen extreme diversion.