“I mean, my faith, he was much more in advance a month ago. There was a goddess here. Where is she now?”
“Behind the clouds,” said Pacey, forming one of a goodly size; and the others helped in a more modest way, as an animated conversation ensued upon art, Pacey giving his opinions loudly, and with the decision of a judge, while the young Frenchman listened to his criticism, much of it being directed at a flower-painting he had in progress.
The debate was at its height, when the little maid again appeared with a note in her hand.
“Aha!” cried Pacey, who was in the highest spirits—“maid of honour to the duchess—the flower of her sex again. Hah! how sweet the perfume of her presence wafted to my sense of smell.”
“Oh, do adone, please, Mr Pacey, sir. You’re always making game of me. I’ll tell missus you call her the duchess—see if I don’t. It ain’t me as smells: it’s this here letter, quite strong. Please, Mr Dale, sir, it was left by that lady in her carriage.”
“Keren-Happuch!” came from below stairs as the girl handed Dale the note; and his countenance changed as he involuntarily turned his eyes to his friend.
“Keren-Happuch!” came again.
“Comin’, mum,” shouted the girl, thrusting her head for a moment through the ajar door, and turning back again.
“Said there wasn’t no answer, sir.”
“Keren-Happuch!”