“I am,” said Nell, “the Pied Piper of Hamlin Town.”
“The rat-catcher,” cried Portsmouth. “Oh, oh, oh!”
There was a lifting of skirts, revealing many high-born insteps, and a scramble for chairs, as the ladies reflected upon the long lines of rats in the train of the mesmeric Pied Piper.
“Flee, flee!” screamed Lady Hamilton, playfully. “He may pipe us into the mountains after the children.”
“You fill me with laughter, ladies,” said Portsmouth to her guests. “The man does not live who can entrap me.”
“The woman does,” thought Nell, as, mock-heroically, she placed near her lips a reed-pipe which she had snatched from a musician in the midst of the fun; and, whistling a merry tune which the pipe took no part in, she circled about the room, making quite a wizard’s exit.
The ladies, heart and soul in the fun, fell into line and followed, as if spell-bound by the magic of the Piper.
Charles, James, Rochester and the gallants, who remained, each of whom had been in turn deserted by his fair lady, unmasked and looked at one another in wonderment. Of one accord, they burst into a peal of laughter.
“Sublime audacity,” exclaimed Charles. “Who is this curled darling–this ball-room Adonis? Ods-pitikins, we are in the sear and yellow leaf.”
“Truly, Sire,” said James, dryly, “I myself prefer a gathering of men only.”