“Your occupation, sir?” jeered Buckingham.
“Aye; my former occupation of a soldier”; and Hart’s sword sprang from its scabbard, with a dexterity that proved that he had not forgotten the trick of war.
Buckingham too would have drawn, but a merry voice stayed him.
“How now, gentlemen?” sprang from Nell’s rosy lips, as she came between them, a picture of roguish beauty.
Hart’s pose in an instant was that of apology. “Pardon, Nell,” he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing in courtly fashion. “A small difference of opinion; naught else.”
“Between friends,” replied Nell, reprovingly.
“By the Gods,” cried Buckingham,–and his hat too was in the air and his knee too was bent before the theatre-queen,–“the rewards are worth more than word-combats.”
“Pshaw!” said Nell, as she hugged the King’s roses tighter in her arms. “True Englishmen fight shoulder to shoulder, not face to face.”
“In this case,” replied his lordship, with the air of a conqueror, “the booty cannot be amicably distributed.”
“Oh, ho!” cried Nell. “Brave generals, quarrelling over the spoils. Pooh! There is no girl worth fighting for–that is, not over one! Buckingham! Jack! For shame! What coquette kindles this hot blood?”