There was a gentle tap at the door; a face, a very charming one, looked in, and with a murmured apology withdrew as suddenly as it had come.
‘Curiosity,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly, her eyes twinkling like two stars.
‘Jealousy,’ answered Mrs. Powell derisively. ‘I do not ask which was it, but who was it, sir?’
‘I don’t know,’ said William Henry boldly; ‘I had my back to the door.’
At this both ladies burst out laughing, if an expression so coarse can be applied to as musical mirth as ever rippled from the lips of woman.
‘He doesn’t know,’ cried Mrs. Powell; ‘and this is the young gentleman we took for all simplicity. How dare you, sir? As if her fairy footfall was not evidence enough to your throbbing ears, as if her coming here at all to see how you were getting on with two wicked young women from Drury Lane, was not sufficient proof of her identity?’ Then turning to her companion, ‘How dreadful to contemplate is his depravity! So young in years, and yet so versed in duplicity.’
‘You are engaged to be married to her, of course,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly.
‘Well, yes, madam,’ admitted William Henry; he could not help thinking how charming she would look as the page, Flavia.
‘Don’t be ashamed of it, young gentleman,’ said Mrs. Jordan gravely.
‘It is to your credit, remember, if not to hers,’ interpolated Mrs. Powell ambiguously.