"Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?" asked Sir Percival, inwardly registering a vow to be even with the Prince's favorite for the trick she had played him.
"Angry?" she repeated. "What a question, sir! Surely in your own house you have the privilege of editing your visiting list?"
"You must know why I have done this," he said boldly.
"Why, Sir Percival?"
"Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he bestows upon you, even if you do not return them. I wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed it beyond Moore's power to interfere in his usual impudent manner."
"You need not explain," Bessie said coldly, as a servant approached.
"The Prince's carriage blocks the way," he announced to his master.
"Good!" exclaimed Sir Percival. "His Highness' tardiness worried me. I was afraid he was not coming."
"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales," announced the footman a moment later, "and Mr. Thomas Moore!"
The Regent entered the room with his arm linked in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival's surprise and disappointment.