“Within an hour, he said.” Instinctively, Nell looked at her reflection in a mirror.
“I'll not see him,” she repeated. “That gown will do well enough for one just returned from the Indies,” said the mother, with a leer.
“Oh, go away, go away,” cried her daughter. “You have done enough mischief for one morning. Why could not you have let things be? Why should you put this man on my track?”
“'T is a fool that the wench is, for all her smartness,” said the mother. “She was picked out of the gutter and set down among the noblest in the land, and all that held on to her gown were landed in pleasant places; and yet she talks like a kitchen jade with no sense. If you will not see the lad, hussy, lock your door and close your shutters, after giving orders to your lacqueys to admit him not. If needful, the king can be petitioned to send a guard to line the Park with their pikes to keep out poor Dick, as though he was the devil, and the Park the Garden of Eden.”
“Oh, go away—go away!”
“Oh, yes; I 'll go—and you 'll see him, too—no fear about that. A girl, however well provided for—and you're well provided for—would n't refuse to see an old sweetheart, if he was the old serpent himself; nay, she'd see him on that account alone. And so good day to you, good Mistress Eve.”
She made a mock courtesy, the irony of which was quite as broad as that of her speech, and marched out of the room, holding her narrow skirts sufficiently high to display a shocking pair of flat-footed boots beneath.
Her daughter watched her departure, and only when she had disappeared burst into a laugh. In a moment she was grave once again. She remained seated without changing her attitude or expression for a long time. At last she sprang to her feet, saying out loud, as though some one were present to hear her:
“What a fool thou art, friend Nell, to become glum over a boy sweetheart—and a link boy, of all boys. Were I to tell Mr. Dryden of my fancy, he would write one of his verses about it, making out that poor Dick was the little god Cupid in disguise, and that his link was the torch of love. But I'll not see him.'T were best not. He'll hear all, soon enough, and loathe me as at times I loathe myself—no, no; not so much as that, not so much as that: Dick had always a kind heart. No; I'll not see him.” She went resolutely to the bell-pull, but when there, stood irresolute with the ornamental ring of brass in her hand, for some moments before pulling it. She gave it a sudden jerk, and when it was responded to by a lacquey, she said:
“Should a man call asking to see me within the next hour, he is to be told—with civility, mind you: he is a gentleman—that—that I am in this room, and that I will see him for five minutes—only five minutes, mind you, sirrah.”