But Horry shook his ambrosial curls.
"No, Madam, 'pon honour! A little girl with the vivacity of sixteen and brown eyes, brown hair--in fact, a brown beauty."
And then it flashed on me and I says:--
"Good God!--Maria! But sure she can't be presented. 'Tis impossible!" And could have bit my silly tongue out when't was said.
He shrugged his shoulders like a Frenchman,--'tis the last grace he picked up in Paris,--and turned from me to the new lady errant, Miss Chester, who models herself on the famous Miss Chudleigh.
But nothing could equal the horrid indecency of Miss Chudleigh's habit at the Ranelagh Masquerade some five years back, when Mrs Montagu, observing her, said: "Here is Iphigenia for the sacrifice, but so naked the high priest may inspect the entrails of the victim without more ado." And says Horry: "Surely, 'tis Andromeda she means herself, and not Iphigenia!" I thought we should have died laughing. The Maids of Honour were then so offended not one of 'em would speak to her. They are not such prudes today, and Miss Chester has as much countenance as she looks for. Alas, it takes a wise woman, if not a good one, to know just where certainty should stop and imagination take its place!
But, Kitty child, who do you guess is the new beauty? I give you one, I give you two, I give you three! And if 'twas three hundred, you'd be never the wiser. Why, Maria Walpole, you little blockhead! Maria, the daughter of Sir Edward Walpole, Horry's brother. What think you of that? But Sir Edward never was married, says you. True for you, Kitty, but don't you know the story? No, to be sure. There's no scandal in Ireland, for St. Patrick banished it along with the snakes and their poison, because the island that has so many misfortunes would have died of another.
Well, take your sampler like a good little girl and hearken to the history of the lovely Maria that's to blow out the Gunning candles. Let me present to your la'ship Sir Edward Walpole, brother to the Baron of Strawberry Hill. A flourish and a sliding bow, and you know one another! Sir Edward, who resembles not Horry in his love for the twittle-twattle of the town, is a passable performer on the bass viol, and a hermit--the Hermit of Pall Mall. But the rules of that Hermitage are not too severe, child. 'Tis known there were relaxations. And notably one.
The Hermit some years since was lodged in Pall Mall; and in the lower floors was lodged a dealer in clothes, with prentices to fetch and carry.
Lord! says Kitty, what's this to the purpose? Attend, Madam. The curtain rises!