“Excuse me, your lordship,” insinuated a most aristocratic footman in his ear, at that moment, “but there is an individual downstairs who persists on seeing the earl, and and won’t take no for an answer.”
“Who is it?” inquired Lord Villiers, impatiently.
“A gipsy, my lord, a desperate-looking old tramper, too.”
“What’s that about gipsies?” said the unceremonious little Miss Jernyngham, passing at that moment. “You must know, my lord, I fairly dote on gipsies, ever since I saw that charming young man they are going to transport.”
“How I wish I were a gipsy!” said Lord Villiers, gayly, “for such a reward.”
“Pray spare your pretty speeches for Lady Maude Percy, my lord,” lisped Miss Jernyngham, giving him a tap with her fan; “but about this gipsy—is it a man or woman?”
“A woman, Miss, they call her the gipsy queen, Ketura.”
“A gipsy queen! oh, delightful!” cried the young lady, clapping her hands; “my lord, we must have her up, by all means. I insist on having my fortune told.”
“Your slave hears but to obey, Miss Jernyngham,” said Lord Villiers, with a bow. “Jonson, go and bring the old lady up.”
“Yes, me lud,” said Jonson, hurrying off.