“’Tis too volatile,” charged Nell, decisively. “’Tis here, ’tis there, ’tis everywhere bestowed. Each rosy tavern-wench with a pretty ankle commands it halt. A kiss is the gift of God, the emblem of true love. Take back the King’s kiss; I do not wish it.”
“He does not love the King,” thought Portsmouth, ever on the lookout for advantage. “A possible ally!”
She turned upon the youth, with humorous, mocking lip, and said reprovingly: “A kiss is a kiss the world over, fair sir; and the King’s kisses are sacred to Portsmouth’s lips.”
“Zounds,” replied Nell, with a wicked wink, “not two hours since, he bestowed a kiss on Eleanor Gwyn–”
“Nell Gwyn!” cried the Duchess, interrupting; and she started violently.
“With oaths, mountains high,” continued Nell, with pleasurable harshness, “that his lips were only for her.”
The Duchess stood speechless, quivering from top to toe.
Nell herself swaggered carelessly across the room, muttering mischievously, as she watched the Duchess from the corner of her eye: “Methinks that speech went home.”
“He kissed her in your presence?” gasped Portsmouth, anxiously following her.
“I was not far off, dear Duchess,” was the quizzical reply.