She approached Adair, artfully, and inquired: “Who art thou, my butterfly? Tell me now, e’er I die.” Her attitude was a credit to the extremes of euphuism.
There was general laughter at her presumptuous and effete pose and phrase.
The ladies had gathered about the new hero, like bees about new clover. The gallants stood, or sat as wall-flowers in a row, deserted. The King too had been abandoned for the lion of the hour and sat disconsolate.
“Peace, jealous ones!” cried Lady Hamilton, reprovingly, then continued, with a winning way: “I know thou art Apollo himself, good sir.”
Nell smiled complacently, though she felt her mask, to assure herself that it was firm.
“Apollo, truly,” she said, jauntily, “if thou art his lyre, sweet lady.”
Lady Hamilton turned to the Duchess.
“Oh, your grace,” she asked, languishingly, “tell us in a breath, tell us, who is this dainty beau of the ball?”
“How am I to know my guests,” answered Portsmouth, feigning innocence, “with their vizors down? Nay, sweet sir, unmask and please the ladies. I’faith, who art thou?”
The hostess was delighted. The popularity of the new-comer was lending a unique novelty to her entertainment. She was well pleased that she had detained Monsieur Adair. She thought she saw a jealous look in the King’s usually carelessly indifferent gaze when she encouraged the affectionate glances of the Irish youth.