“As I was saying,” pursued Mr. Scarsdale, making the most of the occasion, “I met Sir John Dering by chance at a wayside inn, not twenty miles from Paris, and had some conversation with him.”
“Why then, sir,” quoth my lady, “’tis like you saw this ‘wench,’ this ‘nymph,’ this ‘goddess in homespun’?”
“Egad, my lady,” smirked Mr. Scarsdale, “now you mention it, I did——”
“Hid?” cried Lord Aldbourne. “What did ye hide for, sir, and where?”
“My lord, I say that I caught a brief glimpse of Sir John Dering’s ‘buxom wench’!”
“Oh, rat me, but did ye so, Scarsdale?” piped Mr. Prescott. “And was she handsome indeed—come?”
“Let me parish, sir, if she wasn’t!” cried Mr. Scarsdale, ecstatic. “A magnificent crayture, on my life! A plum, sir, a glorious piece——”
“We believe you, sir!” quoth Captain Armitage. “Dering ever had an infallible eye, a most exact judgment!”
“And pray, sir, what was she like?” demanded my lady, rising and approaching the speaker. “Be very particular. Was she dark or fair? And her features ... her face, sir, was it round or oval——”
“She was dark, my lady, dark as night!” answered Mr. Scarsdale. “As to her face ... her face, my lady....” Here, meeting my lady’s glance, he faltered suddenly, his eyes opened wider, his heavy mouth gaped slightly, and he seemed to experience some difficulty with his breath.