"Egad, I like it very well," says Masham heartily. The two exchanged a shrug and a sneer at him. "If Mr. Boyce will risk it, he may make a show of marching out by the garden entrance while you slip away by the servants' wicket beyond."
"I believe I can trust you to get rid of me, my lord," the Pretender shrugged. "Pray, where may we exchange our characters—and our breeches?"
"Oh, sir, follow me; we must be private about that."
Harry burst out laughing. "Aye, faith, he is a gentleman of delicacy, our
Masham," the Pretender said.
But my lord had no ears or no understanding for irony. He brought them to his own quarters and, fervidly entreating them to lose no time, shut them in and mounted guard outside the door.
They cut queer figures to their own eyes when they came out, and Masham was distressed by their laughter. "What ails you?" he protested nervously. "It does well enough, I swear."
"I am flattered by your admiration, pardieu," says the Pretender, with a rueful grin down at the shabby clothes which were so tight upon him, and a clutch at the bob-wig's jauntiness.
"Some are born great," says Harry, "and some have greatness thrust upon 'em. I believe I can keep inside your periwig, sir, but damme if I am sure about your breeches. They disdain me, egad."
"God's life, sir, if you make a jest of it you'll ruin us all," Masham cried. "I vow it's not seemly, neither. The Queen's dead but this half-hour, and—and, by God, our own heads are loose on our shoulders."
"My lord's in the right, sir. It's no laughing matter," says Harry.