“If he knew his guests, he would ne’er return,” softly laughed Nell.
“Parbleu,” continued Portsmouth, in her French, impatient way, now quite incensed by the stupidity of the landlord, “a cavalier would meet me at Ye Blue Boar Inn; so said the messenger.”
She suddenly caught sight of Nell, whose biting curiosity had led her from her hiding-place. “This is not the rendezvous,” she reflected quickly. “We were to sup alone.”
The landlord still bowed and still uttered the meaningless phrase: “Yes, your ladyship.”
The Duchess was at the end of her patience. “Mon Dieu,” she exclaimed, “do you know nothing, sirrah?”
The moon-face beamed. The head bowed and bowed and bowed; the hands were rubbed together graciously.
“Good lack, I know not; a supper for a king was ordered by a ragged Roundhead,” he replied. “Here are two petticoats, your ladyship. When I know which petticoat is which petticoat, your ladyship, I will serve the dinner.”
The tavern-keeper sidled toward the kitchen-door. As he went out, he muttered, judiciously low: “I wouldn’t give a ha’penny for the choice.”
“Beggar!” snapped Portsmouth. “Musty place, musty furniture, musty garçon, musty everything!”
She stood aloof in the centre of the room as if fearful lest she might be contaminated by her surroundings.