“I can endure no more, gallants,” cried he, with some pretence of anger, rising abruptly, followed, of course, in each move and grimace by his courtier-apes, in their desire to please. “Are we to be out-done in our own realm by this usurper with a brogue? Ha! The fiddlers! Madame, I claim the honour of this fair hand for the dance.”
At the sound of the music, he had stepped gallantly forward, taking the hostess’s hand.
“My thanks, gallant masker,” replied the Duchess, pretending not to know him for flattery’s sake, “but I am–”
To her surprise, she had no opportunity to complete the sentence.
“Engaged! Engaged!” interposed Nell, coming unceremoniously between them, with swaggering assumption and an eye-shot at the King through the portal of her mask. “Forsooth, some other time, strange sir.”
The hostess stood horrified.
“Pardon, Sir Masker,” she hastened to explain; “but the dance was pledged–”
“No apologies, Duchess,” replied the King, as he turned away, carelessly, with the reflection: “All’s one to me at this assemblage.”
He crossed the room, turning an instant to look, with a humorous, quizzical glance, at Portsmouth. Nell mistook the glance for a jealous one and, perking up quickly, caught the royal eye with a challenging eye, tapping her sword-hilt meaningly. Had the masks been off, the situation would have differed. As it was, the King smiled indifferently. The episode did not affect him further than to touch his sense of humour. Nell turned triumphantly to her partner.
“Odsbud,” she exclaimed, with a delicious, youthful swagger, “we may have to measure swords in your behalf, dear hostess. I trow the fellow loves you.”