“It is for gratification at your grace’s promise.”
“I wonder now,” said he, his eyes narrowing, his lips smiling a little. “I wonder is that the truth, or is it that you think I boasted? that such an achievement is not within my compass? I’ll confess frankly that until I saw you it was not. But you have made it so, my dear.”
“If I have done that, I shall, indeed, have deserved well of my audience,” she answered, but lightly, laughing a little, as if to discount the high-flown compliment.
“As well, I trust, as I shall have deserved of you,” said he.
“The author must always deserve the best of his puppets.”
“Deserve, aye. But how rarely does he get his deserts!”
“Surely you, Bucks, have little reason to complain,” gibed Etheredge. “In my case, now, it is entirely different.”
“It is, George—entirely,” his grace agreed, resenting the interruption. “You are the rarity. You have always found better than you deserved. I have never found it until this moment.” And his eyes upon Miss Farquharson gave point to his meaning.
When at length they left her, her sense of exaltation was all gone. She could not have told you why, but the Duke of Buckingham’s approval uplifted her no longer. Almost did she wish that she might have gone without it. And when Betterton came smiling good-naturedly, to offer her his congratulations upon this conquest, he found her bemused and troubled.