The Bruxelloise had passed from Lord Hay's range of vision; there was nothing left to look at but the pointed gables and nankeen-yellow front of a house on the opposite side of the street. Lord Hay, overhearing the last remark, turned his head, and asked innocently: "Oh, did Sir John tell you so, Mr Creevey?"
An involuntary smile flickered on Judith Worth's lips; the curled ostrich plumes in Lady Georgiana's hat quivered; she raised her muff to her face. The company was allowed a moment to reflect upon the imaginary spectacle of more than six feet of taciturnity in the handsome shape of Sir John Colborne, Colonel of the Fighting 52nd, unburdening his soul to Mr Creevey.
Mr Creevey was not in the least abashed. He shook a finger at the young Guardsman, and replied with a knowing look: "Oh, you must not think I am going to divulge all the sources of my information, Lord Hay!"
"I like the Prince of Orange," declared Hay. "He's a rattling good fellow."
"Oh, as to that -!"
Lady Worth, aware that Mr Creevey's opinion of the Prince would hardly please Lord Hay, intervened with the observation that his brother, Prince Frederick, seemed to be a fine young man.
"Stiff as a poker," said Hay. "Prussian style. They call me the Stabs-Captain."
"He's nice enough to look at," conceded Lady Georgiana, adjusting the folds of her olive-brown pelisse. "But he's only eighteen, and can't signify."
"Georgy!" protested Hay.
She laughed. "Well, but you don't signify either, Hay: you know you don't! You are just a boy."