“A good deal, my Lord; despite the old adage. For modesty is a quality that does not adorn Mademoiselle Lalande. A pity, too! The want of it may ruin her reputation, if it hasn’t done that already.”
“What a moralist you are, Major! Your ideas have a strong taint of Puritanism. I hope you’re not going to turn your back on us gay Cavaliers. Ha-ha-ha!”
The laugh told his Lordship to be in jest. He knew Major Grenville to be a devoted adherent of the King, else he would not have bantered him.
“But,” he continued, reverting to the topic with which they started, “morals apart, I’ve never seen a thing to give one such an idea of woman’s power as she does—in that curious Indian dance. ’Tis a wonderful picture, or rather embodiment, of feminine voluptuousness.”
“All that I admit,” returned the Major. “But for true womanly grace—ay, abandon, but of a very different kind—you should see a cousin she has, a real English girl, or, to speak more correctly, Welsh.”
“All the same. But who is the cousin so highly endowed?”
“A Miss Powell, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, who, I’m sorry to say, is not on our side; instead, one of our bitterest enemies.”
“Might you mean Master Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead House, up in the Forest of Dean?”
“The same. Your Lordship seems to know him?”
“Certainly I do, or did; for it’s several years since I’ve seen him. But he had two daughters then, Sabrina and Vaga. One is not likely to forget the names. Are not both still living?”