“Yes,” said she, with a pretty shrug. “I did not know I was so honoured, my lord.”
“Or you would not have refused the little kiss?” he asked, suggestively.
“You called me ‘Nelly,’ my lord. I do not respond to that name.”
“Damme, I was never good at names, Louise,” said he, with mock-apology, “especially by moonlight.”
“Buz, buz!” she answered, with a knowing gesture and a knowing look. Then, pointing toward the terrace, she added: “A pretty nest! A pretty bird within, I warrant. Her name?”
“Ignorance well feigned,” he thought. He replied, however, most graciously: “Nell Gwyn.”
“Oh, ho! The King’s favourite, who has more power, they say, than great statesmen–like my lord.”
Her speech was well defined to draw out his lordship; but he was wary.
“Unless my lord is guided by my lady, as formerly,” he replied, diplomatically.
A look of suspicion crept into Portsmouth’s face: but it was not visible for want of contrast; for all things have a perverted look by the light of the moon.