“’Tis well,” cried Portsmouth. “None, none! Letters to me! Did he say from whom?”
“He said,” continued Buckingham, still laughing, “that he was under orders of his master to place them only in the Duchess’s hands. Oh, he is a very lordly youth.”
The Duke throughout made a sad attempt at amusing imitations of the brogue of the strange, youthful, Irish visitor who, with so much importunity, sought a hearing.
Portsmouth reflected a moment and then said: “I will see him, Buckingham, but briefly.”
Buckingham, not a little surprised, bowed and departed graciously to convey the bidding.
The Duchess lost herself again in thought. “His message may have import,” she reflected. “Louis sends strange messengers ofttimes.”
In the midst of her reverie, the tapestry at the door was again pushed back, cautiously this time, then eagerly. There entered the prettiest spark that ever graced a kingdom or trod a measure.
It was Nell, accoutred as a youth; and a bold play truly she was making. Her face revealed that she herself was none too sure of the outcome.
“By my troth,” she thought, as she glanced uncomfortably about the great room, “I feel as though I were all breeches.” She shivered. “It is such a little way through these braveries to me.”
Her eyes turned involuntarily to the corner where Portsmouth sat, now dreaming of far-off France.