“Lady Hamilton asks after the wife you left at home.”
“My wife!” cried Nell, in astonishment; for this phase of her masquerading had not presented itself to her before. “Great Heavens, I have no wife–I assure you, ladies!”
“So?” observed Portsmouth, her curiosity awakened. “Modest–for a bachelor.”
“A bachelor!” exclaimed Nell, now fully en rapport with the spirit of the situation. “Well,–not exactly a bachelor either,–ladies.”
“Alack-a-day,” sighed Lady Hamilton, with a knowing glance at her companions, “neither a bachelor nor a married man!”
“Well, you see–” explained Nell, adroitly, “that might seem a trifle queer, but–I’m in mourning–deeply in mourning, ladies.”
She drew a kerchief from her dress and feigned bitter tears.
“A widower!” tittered Lady Hamilton, heartlessly. “Our united congratulations, sir.”
The other ladies one by one sobbed with affected sympathy, wiping their eyes tenderly, however, lest they might remove the rich colour from their cheeks.
“Mesdames,” said Nell, reprovingly, “the memory is sacred. Believe me, very sacred.”