She fell apparently once again to weeping bitterly.
“The memory is always sacred–with men,” observed Portsmouth, for the benefit of her guests, not excepting the Irish youth. “Nay, tell us the name of the fair one who left you so young. My heart goes out to you, dear Beau.”
“Kind hostess,” replied Nell, assuming her tenderest tones, “the name of my departed self is–Nell!”
Hart caught the word. The player was standing near, reflecting on the scene and on the honeyed words of the Duke of Buckingham, who was preparing the way that he might use him.
“Nell!” he muttered. “Who spoke that name?”
The hostess too was startled.
“Nell!” she exclaimed, with contending emotions. “Strange! Another cavalier who graces mon bal masqué to-night has lost a loved one whose name is Nell. Ah, but she was unworthy of his noble love.”
She spoke pointedly at the masked King, who started perceptibly.
“Yes,” he thought; for his conscience smote him, “unworthy–he of her.”
“Unworthy, truly, if he dances so soon and his own Nell dead,” added Nell, reflectively, but so that all might hear, more especially Charles.