“All?” asked his lordship.
“All!” replied her ladyship.
“Damme, I cannot hold a dozen,” he exclaimed, aghast.
“A chair! A chair!” cried Nell. “Would your lordship stand at the feast of gold?”
Before Buckingham had time to reflect upon the outrage to his dignity, Nell forced him into a chair, to the great glee of the by-standers, especially of Manager Hart, who chuckled to an actor by his side: “She’ll pluck his fine feathers; curse his arrogance.”
“Your knees together, my lord! What, have they never united in prayer?” gleefully laughed Nell as she further humbled his lordship by forcing his knees together to form a lap upon which to pile more oranges.
Buckingham did not relish the scene; but he was clever enough to humour the vixen, both from fear of her tongue and from hope of favours as well as words from her rosy lips.
“They’ll unite to hold thee, wench,” he suggested, with a sickly laugh, as he observed his knees well laden with oranges. “I trow not,” retorted Nell; “they can scarce hold their own. There!” and she roguishly capped the pyramid which burdened his lordship’s knees with the largest in her basket.
“I’ll barter these back for my change, sweet Nell,” he pleaded.
“What change?” quickly cried the merry imp of Satan.