It was morning when the great rout broke up and the stream of coaches began to move again. The crowd had stayed; they knew my lord duke’s generosity and that the broken meats from that fête would keep them for a sevennight, and they waited to pour at last into the kitchenway and come out heavy-laden; they were there when the great people went away in their coaches and chairs.
Lady Sunderland was already in her chair and her daughter was coming down the stair with a throng of followers, but it was Richard Trevor who walked beside her.
“The rose I would not take from the ground,” he whispered, “I am no beggar of crumbs—but the shamrock—”
She smiled and her bright eyes looked beyond him at the throng below.
“The shamrock!” he murmured.
It was not in her hair; had she thrown it away? A step lower down and she held out her hand and dropped the sprig into his.
“A poor thing, sir, but ’tis yours,” she said, “and you were long in claiming it,” she added, laughing softly.
At the moment a wreath of flowers, cast from the balcony above, fell lightly on her shoulders, and she stood laughing, the petals showering her and falling all about her feet.
He kissed her finger tips gallantly.
“The Queen of the Rout is crowned!” he said.