“No, my lord; quite serious.”
His lordship’s face changed slightly. “Read it eagerly?” he ventured, where he might have commanded, further to draw out the lad.
“Yes, my lord,” added Dick, respectfully, “after a time.” The boy’s lids dropped to avoid revealing his amused recollection of the incident; and his lordship’s quick eye noted it.
“Good!” he exclaimed, with an assumed triumphant air. “She folded it carefully and placed it in her bosom next her heart?”
“She threw it on the floor, my lord!” meekly answered Dick, hiding his face in the flowers to avoid revealing disrespect.
“My billet-doux upon the floor!” angrily exclaimed his lordship. “Plague on’t, she said something, made some answer, boy?” The diplomat was growing earnest despite himself, as diplomats often do in the cause of women.
Dick trembled.
“She said your dinners made amends for your company, my lord,” he said, meekly.
Buckingham’s eyes snapped; but he was too clever to reveal his feelings further to a call-boy, whom he dismissed with a wave of the hand. He then swaggered to the table and complacently exclaimed: “The rogue! Nelly, Nelly, your lips shall pay tribute for that. Rosy impudence! Buckingham’s dinners make amends for his company? Minx!” He threw himself into a chair, filled with deep reflections of supper and wine, wit and beauty, rather than state-craft.
Thus lost in selfish reflection, he did not observe, or, if he did, cared not for, the frail figure and sweet face of one who cautiously tiptoed into the greenroom. It was Orange Moll, whose sad countenance and tattered garments betokened a sadder story. Her place was in the pit, with her back to the stage, vending her oranges to artisans, girls with vizards or foolish gallants. She had no right behind the scenes.