His American Highness’s description, you see, exact! Mr. Rich looked up.
“What did she give you to say this, you old harridan?”
Mrs. Scawen turned out her pocket—
“ ’Tis as bare as charity, your Honour, but for my huswife and the nutmeg for my mulled ale. No, ’tis the truth. Lips like cherries, and a voice like a thrush, and hair——”
“What like was her hair?” cries Mr. Rich “Cobwebs of gold— O, stow this rant, old woman, and get you gone and dismiss her. I’ll not see her. I’ll not see Helen’s self this night. Go, get the oysters.”
Mrs. Scawen curtseyed.
“They’re here, your Honour. Don’t I know your blessed habits by now? I don’t know who Mrs. Helen might be, but I know well that this young person is as pretty as her ladyship and to spare. She’ll draw all the gentlemen at the tail of her petticoat—no question but she will. ’Tis worth your Honour’s while to have a look.”
“ ’Tis worth my while to do and suffer anything to stop your tongue, Scawen. So have her in, and if she falls an inch short of your perfections I’ll dock you half a guinea next pay-day.”
The door closed swiftly, and there was a moment’s peace during which Mr. Rich helped himself to snuff and surveyed his silk hose with some satisfaction. He had no expectations about the coming applicant, but ’twas worth while to keep old Scawen in tune—she was a conveniency at all times and no end to her obliging compliance where he was concerned.
Female voices, one very low, were heard coming along the grimy little passage. The door opened and Mrs. Scawen flattened herself against the wall to give passage to a cloaked figure.