“Ay, but there is a finer sort of rabble—a rabble of quality—beginning with his Majesty, that are always pleased with anything new. And this little creature is as fresh as a spring morning. To see her laugh, to hear the ring of it, clear and sweet as a skylark’s song! On my life, madam, the town has a new toy; and Mrs. Gwyn will be the rage in high quarters. You should have seen Castlemaine’s scowl when Rowley laughed, and ducked under the box almost, in an ecstasy of amusement at the huge hat.”
“Lady Castlemaine’s brow would thunder-cloud if his Majesty looked at a fly on a window-pane. But she has something else to provoke her frowns to-day.”
“What is that, chère dame?” asked Hyacinth, snatching a favourite fan from Sir Ralph, who was teasing one of the Blenheims with African feathers that were almost priceless.
“The desertion of an old friend. The Comte de Malfort has left England.”
Lady Fareham turned livid under her rouge. Angela ran to her and leant over her, upon a pretence of rescuing the fan and chiding the dogs; and so contrived to screen her sister’s change of complexion from the malignity of her dearest friends.
“Left England! Why, he is confined to his bed with a fever!” Hyacinth said faintly, when she had somewhat recovered from the shock.
“Nay, it seems that he began to go abroad last week, but would see no company, except a confidential friend or so. He left London this morning for Dover.”
“No doubt he has business in Burgundy, where his estate is, and at Paris, where he is of importance at the Court,” said Hyacinth, as lightly as she could; “but I’ll wager anything anybody likes that he will be in London again in a month.”
“I’ll take you for those black pearls in your ears, ma mie,” said Lady Sarah. “His furniture is to be sold by auction next week. I saw a bill on the house this afternoon. It is sudden! Perhaps the Castlemaine had become too exacting!”
“Castlemaine!” faltered Hyacinth, agitated beyond her power of self-control. “Why, what is she to him more than she is to other men?”