“Bad quality,” ejaculated Nell.
“She has come in a chair of silver,” cried the landlord.
“My chair shall be of beaten gold, then,” thought Nell, with a twinkle of the eye. “Charles, you must raise the taxes.”
“Mercy me, the great lady’s coming in,” continued the landlord, beside himself in his excitement.
“She shall be welcome, most welcome, landlord,” observed Nell promptly.
“Body o’ me! What shall I say?” asked the landlord, in trembling accents.
“Faith and troth,” replied Nell, coming to his rescue, “I will do the parlez-vousing with her ladyship. Haste thee, thou grinning fat man.” She glided quickly into a corner of the old fireplace, where she could not be observed so readily.
The Duchess of Portsmouth entered, with all the haughty grandeur of a queen. She glanced about contemptuously, and her lip could be seen to curl, even through the veil which partially hid her face.
“This bourgeois place,” she said, “to sup with the King! It cannot be! Garçon!”
“What a voice,” reflected Nell, in her hiding-place, “in which to sigh, ‘I love you.’”