As yet, in the depths of Armsleigh Copse, no news of the supposed highwayman’s capture had penetrated, although the Earl, with commendable foresight in behalf of the entertainment of his young daughter and her companions, had sent a messenger to impart the sight shortly to be had; the messenger, having a sweetheart in the other direction, must needs go apprise her first! So the gay Ladies and their cavaliers sat on fallen logs, strolled hither and yon, knelt to sop their bits of linen in the dewy hollows, laughed, chatted, dabbed their faces, now lacking any coat of crimson, save that which Nature might have vouchsafed, and made great show of a fine rural simplicity.
“La!” cried the Honorable Dolly. “Water hasn’t touched my face before since know I not when!” pecking at her cheeks with the corner of her pocket-napkin. “But it has a monstrous refreshing sensation!”
“Oh, Doll, ’tis not thus and so you must apply it, as ’twere some French essence worth its weight in guineas; but look!” cried Lady Diana, flopping down and burying her face in a bath of the dew-drops, and laughing as she looks up dripping.
“That’s the way, faith,” coincides Lady Biddy, scrubbing her own round cheeks with her wrung out linen, then both fists into her blue eyes to dry off the winkers.
“’Slife, Ladies!” exclaims one of the gentlemen, “but you almost tempt us to follow your example.”
“Hither, ye gossoon,” answers Lady Biddy, “an’ I’ll be afther makin’ your countenance shine. Hark! Hoofs!”
“Hoofs! Hoofs!” cry all these fair ones, a-darting this way and that, stuffing their napkins into their bodices, as a courteous voice, with a—
“By your leave, Ladies and Sirs!” greets them, and none other than Sir Percy, self and horse spent in his fruitless search for the supposed Sir Robin, emerges from the bridle-path across the common, at the edge of the copse.
“The top of the morning to you, Sir Percy de Bohun,” laughs Lady Biddy.
“Percy!” exclaims Lady Diana, “prithee, what are you doing out of doors at this hour?”