“This way, Mr. Chalk,” as he raps gently at the door.
“—And for all those I shall have to commit!” concludes Her Ladyship, as she springs to her feet and unfastens the door, admitting the tailor a la mode.
That night, the suit of grays well brushed, her wig re-curled, and her pocket-napkin richly perfumed, her mother’s Brussels veil stripped up and made into a cravat of so ravishing a device as caused her host almost a spasm when he beheld it, Sir Robin McTart sat at honor-place at dinner, and was, to make a long story short, the cynosure and toast of the occasion.
The duel with Sir Percy, the rescue of My Lady Diana, the invention of a cravat, the nimble wit, the handsome face, soon bespoke Peggy into a favor, that, considering all other things, was well-nigh incredible; and when, the following day; she appeared in one of the suits Mr. Chalk had made, with a dash of powder on her wig and a bronzed complexion due to surreptitious purchase at the players’ cosmetic shop in Drury Lane, of sundry brown, red, and black pastes while making feint of being a comedian, the satisfaction of her host was unbounded.
“Robin, my boy,” said this one, with a side-glance at his guest, “an you’re a bit short of money, I’ll put a few hundreds to your account at my banker’s. Young gentlemen will be wild and spendthrift at times; London’s new to you I fancy, and—”
“I thank you, Mr. Brummell, from my heart,” returned Peg, “but I’ve three hundred pounds now idle in my pocket. That will last me, I’m confident, until I reach home, and, by your leave, I’m thinking I’ll quit town this evening.”
But Mr. Brummell has no ears for any such scheme. The Beau’s erratic fancy has not been caught by a new object for the mere sake of losing it; his joy in the dash and buoyancy, the originality and naïvete of his latest discovery is genuine, and no argument, of the very few Lady Peggy can offer, but he breaks down at once.
“Zounds, Sir! Are you a fool, Sir? Your sire was not one before you. To have half London a-talkin’ about you; all the prints a-chronicling your movements; all the ladies a-dying for a glimpse of you, and you only up in town these few days; and a-proposing to go back and bury your talents for tying Brussels, in Kent! Fie upon you, Sir! I listen to no such whims. Here’s my basket loaded with invitations for you already. Lady Brookwood’s rout to-night!” with a sly glance at Peg’s really blushing face; “Lady Diana Weston’s mother, as you are doubtless aware? The Charity Bazaar at Selwyn’s to-morrow; dinner at Holland House; Almacks’s, and my own little plan for next Thursday which is an outing to my seat in Surrey a-horseback; dinner, bowls, a look over the stables, and home by the light o’ the moon. ‘Back to Kent,’ forsooth! No, Sir, not yet.”
A few hours later, as Lady Peggy got into her magnificent suit of crimson satin, gold embroidered; as she beheld her image in the glass and caught the hilt of her sword in her hand, the blood that surged over her face and throat was ruby-red; and, at her wits’ ends for what to do, the girl’s tears forced themselves to her eyes once again.
She was to be off soon to Lady Brookwood’s; here she should encounter not only Lady Diana, but doubtless Percy himself; mayhap Kennaston, if he had been able to get him a decent coat to wear in place of the gray velvets! Doubtless, too, all those others she had met in Lark Lane.