LADY SUNDERLAND was, as usual, playing cards with her crony. The game was gleek, and Lady Dacres was determined to be avenged for the loss of the Chinese dragon—grinning hideously from the mantel—and she was betting and cheating desperately. Dr. Radcliffe made a third, and Lord Spencer looked on—politely bored.
The tapers burned brightly and Lady Sunderland simpered and nodded her head at Dr. Radcliffe, though she would not have tolerated his society if he had not been physician to the Princess Anne and she hoped to extract some royal gossip from him.
The host of the Lion’s Head came in himself, with a servant bearing a large loving-cup of silver. The good man was flushed and obsequious and plainly out of sorts, keeping a weather eye on Lord Spencer.
“Will your ladyship be pleased to try this hypocras?” he said, bowing low; “’tis of my own brewing and I’ll warrant it the finest in the county—I had the rule from the keeper of Man’s,” and he rubbed his fat hands together unctuously.
Lady Dacres tasted first and rolled her eyes up.
“Ambrosia!” she said, “oh, la—I mean nectar, don’t I, Lord Spencer?” and she tittered like a girl of sixteen.
Dr. Radcliffe drank some deliberately.
“Better than the brandy you sent us this afternoon,” he remarked, with a twinkle in his eye.
The man grew crimson. “’Tis for a better purpose,” he stammered.
The great physician raised his eyebrows.