Her Ladyship smiles as she spreads her train and glances at it over her shoulder.
“Chock,” says she, “look you, now, while I cross the room; does the paduasoy stand out well over my hoop?”
“Like the dish-clout, My Lady, when I spreads it to dry over one of the biggest hen-coops. ’Tis monstrous fine, finer, I should swear, than anything Lady Diana could have!” Chockey sighs, lost in admiration. “Though belike Lord Kennaston wouldn’t think so.”
“And, Chock, look again.” Her Ladyship crosses back to the divan. “’Tis thus the town ladies give the true quality sweep to their trains. Give me the trinket Sir Percy sent me last night.” Peggy takes a fan of most beautiful feathers from a mother-of-pearl box and waves it back and forth. “’Tis so, Chock, the London fine ladies flutter the fan, as ’tis called, and every wriggle hath a different meaning!”
“Oh!” Chockey is well-nigh speechless as she watches her mistress sidling, bridling, agitating the fan back, forth, hither, and yon. “Madam, ’tis amazin’ grand! A glass of port now, My Lady, as by the orders of the surgeons?”
“Nay,” says Peggy, “I ain’t in need of such.”
“A mug of ale? cider? milk?”
“I’ll none of ’em, Chock,” returns Her Ladyship, seating herself on the divan, and spreading out the paduasoy as ’twere a tail and she the peacock owning it.
“Set my étui beside me on the stand; place that large chair far off yonder by the window for Sir Percy, that he may not disturb my furbelows, and—”
“Hark, Madam! Hoofs!”