The company crowded about her chair. She waved her fan, imperial.
“To support the Prince of Wales.”
A chorus arose—
“Lord, my dear. He’s as bad as his father and mother combined.”—“You don’t speak seriously,” and so forth.
“I’ll have Mr. Gay introduce a new song in his favour tomorrow—’twill drive them mad. I’ll see Polly on it this night. Lord, I forgot!” She stopt of a sudden.
“What, Duchess?”
“Why, she’s not here. I had the prettiest note from her last night when the chair returned without her to notify me that her mamma was took ill at her aunt’s house and she must go to her at once.”
“The dutiful girl!” says Sir Temperley.— “I own she’s as pretty as sweet Mistress Nell Gwynne, and a deal more innocent, if a face can be trusted. I wish I were her aunt.”
“Aunt? She has not a relative in the world—so Mr. Gay said when I asked him,”—says Lady Fanny.
The Duchess, bewildered, felt in the silk bag she carried on her arm.