“Send for Sir Robin!” is the cry of the company.
“Zooks! Sirs, but our reputations as gallants are broken up, an we’ve not seen her of whom the prints speak thus!” says the Beau, adding at once:
“Tempers, my compliments to Sir Robin McTart, and beg of him to join us, for, at the least, a few moments. I know he’s averse to early rising, but pray inform him to skip across in his dressing-gown and slippers, and night-cap, we’ve no ladies here about to ogle him!”
The which message being conveyed to My Lady Peggy a-sitting by the pulled-out chest of drawers, mournfully contemplating her long shorn tresses with barred door, arouses in her such a fever of sorrow as well-nigh chokes her utterance.
“Say to Mr. Brummell I’m asleep, Tempers, and crave to know his pleasure, the answer to which I’ll send as faithfully as Morpheus will permit, by you for Mercury! Off with you!” and Her Ladyship softly stroked her locks, and for the thousandth time went planning her escape.
Peels of laughter, rattling of rapiers, click of heels, and now—
“Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!” on the door.
“McTart! McTart! Up with you from betwixt coverlets and into your Persian quilt!”
“Out with ye, Sir Robin, or by Gad! Sir, we’ll in, the fifteen of us! and rout you up from Morpheus’s arms.”
“Come, Sir Robin, dally no longer with sweet sleep; up, Sir, and bethink you of Beauty spelled with a P-E-G-G-Y!” shouts Sir Wyatt, chorused by the rest.