“Well, my son,” said Jim’s mother, who believed profoundly in her offspring, “just paint her and see what comes of it.”
While Jim Lascelles lay that night with his head on his arm, dreaming of the Goose Girl, high revel was held at the house of Caroline Crewkerne, in Hill Street, W. All ages and both sexes were gathered in the garb of their ancestors in the spacious suite of rooms on the second floor. From the moment that the first seductive strains were put forth by Herr Blaum’s Green Viennese Band, and his Excellency the Illyrian Ambassador, in the guise of Henri Quatre or the Duke of Buckingham—nobody was quite sure which—accompanied by Diana of Ephesus, a bread-and-butter miss who looked much too young to be a duchess, went up the carpetless blue drawing-room, which seemed at least three times the size it did on ordinary occasions, as indeed was the case, there was no doubt that Caroline Crewkerne was going to have a great success.
It is not easy to know whether Red Cross Knights, Cardinal Richelieus, Catherines de’ Medici, and those kinds of people are susceptible of thrills; but there was one unmistakably when George Betterton, in the character of a Gentleman of the Georgian Era, took the floor with Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, upon his arm.
The less responsible spirits directed their gaze to Charles II. The Merry Monarch was engaged in amiable converse with his hostess, who, habited in an Indian shawl, the gift of her Sovereign, and a jeweled turban presented to her by the Shah of Persia during his last visit to this country, together with the insignia of the Spotted Parrot duly displayed round her neck, made her, in the opinion of many, a very tolerable representation of a heathen deity. As a Gentleman of the Georgian Era and Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, came down the room in a somewhat inharmonious manner, owing to the decidedly original ideas of the former in regard to the art he was practicing, the amiable and agreeably cultivated voice of Charles II. soared easily above the strains of the waltz and the frou-frou of the dancers.
“Yes,” said that monarch, “the Georgian Era is sufficiently obvious; but can anybody tell me what has happened to the Gentleman?”
The Georgian Era went its victorious way however, gobbling decidedly, perspiring freely, holding Gainsborough’s Duchess in a grip of iron, and slowly but surely trampling down all opposition with the greatest determination. When, with coxcomb ensanguined, but with a solemn gobble of triumph, he came back whence he started, a slight but well-defined murmur of applause was to be heard on every hand.
“Georgian Era wins in a canter,” one of the knowing fraternity could be heard to proclaim. “Evens on Gobo against the field.”
“Duchess,” said the Georgian Era, with a bow to his fair partner, who looked as cool as a cucumber, “you deserve an ice.”
“Yes,” said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, with grave alacrity, “a pink one, please.”
“Bad form,” said the Second Charles; “decidedly a breach of manners to address her as duchess in the circumstances. But what can one expect of the Georgian Era!”