“Yes?” said Portsmouth; but how much again there was in her little “yes,” accented as it was with a French shrug.
“I adore a beautiful woman,” continued Nell, “especially when I know her to be–”
“A successful rival?” triumphantly asked the Duchess.
“A rival!” exclaimed Nell, in well-feigned astonishment, still toying with the Duchess’s temper. “Is the poor actress so honoured in a duchess’s thought? Your grace is generous.”
If all the angels had united, they could not have made her speech more sweet or her manner more enticing.
“I presumed you might conceive it so,” replied Portsmouth, with mocking, condescending mien.
Nell approached her timidly and spoke softly, lovingly, subserviently.
“A rival to the great Duchess of Portsmouth!” she said. “Perish the thought! It is with trepidation I look upon your glorious face, madame; a figure that would tempt St. Anthony; a foot so small it makes us swear the gods have lent invisible wings to waft you to your conquest. Nay, do not turn your rosy lip in scorn; I am in earnest, so in earnest, that, were I but a man, I would bow me down your constant slave–unless perchance you should grow fat.”
The turn was delicious: Nell’s face was a study; and so was Portsmouth’s.
The Duchess sprang to her feet, realizing fully for the first time that she had been trapped and trifled with. “Hussy! Beware your own lacings,” she angrily exclaimed, turning now full face upon her adversary.