“Dead broke, am I, My Lords and Gentlemen,” says he, “but here’s the whole Court and the deuce,” flinging the pack in the midst of his guests, “play away an ye’ve a shilling left amongst ye. Let it be Commerce or Hazard; I’ll hold the counters; fill the glasses, as long as there’s a drop to pour; keep a lookout for sharpers,” laughing, “and thank God I’ve even a garret wherein to welcome men of vogue like yourselves!”
A burst of applause follows this; plumed hats are tossed aside, wrist-frills upturned; His Grace of Escombe is shuffling the pack; Sir Percy stands with his back to the fire, coat-skirts held from the cheerful blaze he’s made; stools are drawn up; the host takes his silk kerchief from his throat and polishes the mugs. Chockey has her eye glued to a chink in the cover that divides her loft from the scene of revelry below;—when, a bold knock sounds at the door, and the master with a cheery:
“Come along!” throws wide the portal.
The fine gentleman who stands before him makes a profound bow, to which he responds with one not less magnificent.
“Allow me, Lord Kennaston of Kennaston, since it is, I am persuaded, the brother of Lady Peggy Burgoyne whom I have the pleasure of addressing—?” and at her name, Sir Percy lets his brocaded skirts flop and starts forward eagerly—“of addressing, to present to you this note in the hand-writing of Your Lordship’s adorable sister, the which she gave me, wherewith to present and commend me to Your Lordship’s good offices while I am up in town!”
Another salaam given and returned, while Kennaston, with grace, ushers his new acquaintance in, sets him a stool, all the while eye quick-perusing Lady Peggy’s scrawl.
“Gentlemen!” says their host, “allow me to introduce to you, and, Sir, these gentlemen to you, Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, His Grace of Escombe, Sir Percy de Bohun, the Honorable Jack Chalmers, Sir Wyatt Lovell,” etc., etc., etc. The which ceremony being concluded amid many bows and all due forms of mutual delight, the new-comer was cordially invited to take a hand in the game.
Now, as true ’twas that Lady Peggy had never been in a coach until the morning to which this was evening, so true was it that Her Ladyship had not a farthing to her pocket left, and although a good gamester’s daughter, she hesitated, making pretense of hanging her hat and of settling to its proper place her rapier, and pinching her ruffles. While she did so, the rest chatting, Sir Percy crossed the room, and, in a tone that was not heard save by the one he addressed, said to Kennaston:
“As I live, Sir, now’s my chance; I’ll pick a quarrel with this jackanapes that’s dared to oust me from Peggy’s heart. Aye, will I! the sooner the better; blood’ll spill, Kennaston, or ever that puppet and I are thirty minutes older! Mark me! Your sister shall know and hear I’m willing to die for her sake, or—to kill!”
Peggy, meantime, in this second, got her courage well screwed up, and, with a laugh, fitly disguising her voice, said she, seating herself with her legs well under the table—for, at this particular juncture, Her Ladyship, looking down, had beheld with dismay the womanish and forgotten fashion of her shoes.