“Barbarous place!” exclaimed Portsmouth. “His Majesty must have lost his wits.”
She smiled complacently, however, as she reflected that the King might consent even within these walls and that his sign-manual, if so secured, would be as binding as if given in a palace.
“Garçon!” again she called, irritably.
Nell was meanwhile inspecting her rival from top to toe. Nothing escaped her quick eye. “I’ll wager her complexion needs a veil,” she muttered, with vixenish glee. “That gown is an insult to her native France.”
“Garçon; answer me,” commanded Portsmouth, fretfully.
The landlord had danced about her grace in such anxiety to please that he had displeased. He had not learned the courtier’s art of being ever present, yet never in the way.
“Yes, your ladyship,” he stupidly repeated again and again. “What would your ladyship?”
“Did a prince leave commands for supper?” she asked, impatiently.
“No, your ladyship,” he replied, obsequiously. “A ragged rogue ordered a banquet and then ran away, your ladyship.”
“How, sirrah?” she questioned, angrily, though the poor landlord had meant no discourtesy.