But Lord Denningham was smiling as he toyed with the gilt inlaid snuff-box in his hand.
"Not lovers then, for such a little lady," quoth he, persisting. "But a lover—or husband—the most devoted, on the soul of——"
She interrupted him, more rosy red with anger than maiden coyness.
"No, nor lover neither, I thank you, my lord," she replied hastily. "I'll not need or wish to go to town for such."
He opened languid blue eyes in surprise.
"What! Do primrose woods supply those too?" said he. "Fie! madam, I shall tell Morry."
She rose, scarlet with temper, and prettier than ever for her passion, sweeping past her insolent admirer with the air of an angry queen.
Half way up the great room she stopped to speak—and this time with smiling graciousness—to a grey-wigged gentleman in a suit of sober green, with fine lace ruffles and jabot,—a gentleman somewhat old, somewhat bent, and more than somewhat rubicund about the nose. Yet his face was kindly and his bearing paternal towards pretty little Mistress Gabrielle.
Jack Denningham, roué, gambler, and very fine gentleman—in his own eyes—turned away with a chuckle. He had quite determined that this country chit should have the inestimable honour of being Lady Denningham. In the meantime her tantrums and graces amused him.
A jolly shout of welcome from a young man dressed in the height of fashion, from spangled satin waistcoat to buckled shoes, made him turn his head towards the opening door, to which his host was already hastening.