“Tell Mistress Nell, Buckingham would speak with her. Lively, lad; lively,” he said.
“She is on the stage, my lord,” replied Dick, respectfully.
“Gad, I thought otherwise and stepped about from my box. Here; put these flowers in her tiring-room.”
The boy took the beautiful bouquet of white roses. “Yes, my lord,” he replied, and turned to do the bidding.
“Flowers strewn in ladies’ ways oft’ lead to princely favours,” muttered his lordship, thoughtfully, as he removed his gloves and vainly adjusted his hat and sword. “Portsmouth at Dover told me that.”
It was apparent from his face that much passed before his mind, in that little second, of days when, at Dover Castle not long since, he had been a part–and no small part–of the intrigue well planned by Louis of France, and well executed by the Duchess of Orléans assisted by the fair Louise, now Duchess of Portsmouth, in which his own purse and power had waxed mightily. Whatever his lordship thought, however, it was gone like the panorama before a drowning brain.
He stopped the lad as he was entering Nell’s tiring-room, with an exclamation. The boy returned.
“You gave Mistress Nell my note bidding her to supper?” he asked, questioningly.
“I did, my lord,” answered Dick.
“’Sheart, a madrigal worthy of Bacchus! She smiled delightedly?” continued his lordship, in a jocular mood.