“The Duchess!” her lips breathed, almost aloud, in her excitement. “So you’d play hostess to his Majesty,” she thought, “give a royal ball and leave poor Nelly home, would you?”
The Duchess was conscious only of a presence.
“Garçon!” she called, without looking up.
Nell jumped a foot.
“That shook me to the boots,” she ejaculated, softly.
“Garçon!” again called the impatient Duchess.
“Madame,” answered Nell, fearfully, the words seeming to stick in her fair throat, as she hastily removed her hat and bethought her that she must have a care or she would lose her head as well, by forgetting that she was an Irishman with a brogue.
“Who are you?” asked Portsmouth, haughtily, as, rising, with surprised eyes, she became aware of the presence of a stranger.
Indeed, it is not strange that she was surprised. The youth who stood before her was dressed from top to toe in gray–the silver-gray which lends a colour to the cheek and piquancy to the form. The dress was of the latest cut. The hat had the longest plume. The cloak hung gracefully save where the glistening sword broke its falling lines. The boots were neat, well rounded and well cut, encasing a jaunty leg. The dress was edged with silver.
Ah, the strange youth was a love, indeed, with his bright, sparkling eyes, his lips radiant with smiles, his curls falling to his shoulders.