“‘Mr. James Haddon gives ten pounds each to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and to Sir Robert Volney and is to receive from each twenty guineas if Mr. K. Montagu is alive twelve months from date.’ Egad, you’re a topic of interest in high quarters!”
“Honoured, I’m sure! I’ll make it a point to see that his Royal Highness and my dear friend Volney lose. Anything else?”
“At the coffee-house they were talking about raising a subscription to you because they hear you’re devilish hard up and because you made such a plucky fight against Volney. Some one mentioned that you had a temper and were proud as Lucifer. ‘He’s such a hothead. How’ll he take it?’ asks Beauclerc. ‘Why, quarterly, to be sure!’ cries Selwyn. And that reminds me: George has written an epigram that is going the rounds. Out of some queer whim—to keep them warm I suppose—Madame Bellevue took her slippers to bed with her. Some one told it at the club, so Selwyn sat down and wrote these verses:
| “‘Well may Suspicion shake its head— Well may Clorinda’s spouse be jealous, When the dear wanton takes to bed Her very shoes—because they’re fellows.’” |
Creagh’s merry laugh was a source of healing in itself, and his departure to join the Prince put an edge to the zest of my desire to get back into the world. Just before leaving he fished a letter from his pocket and tossed it across the room to me.
“Egad, and you are the lucky man, Kenn,” he said. “The ladies pester us with praises of your valour. This morning one of the fair creatures gave me this to deliver, swearing I knew your whereabouts.”
’Twas a gay little note from my former playmate Antoinette Westerleigh, and inclosed was a letter to her from my sister. How eagerly I devoured Cloe’s letter for news of Aileen may be guessed.
My Dearest ’Toinette:—
Since last I saw you (so the letter ran) seems a century, and of course I am dying to come to town. No doubt the country is very healthy, but Lud! ’tis monstrous dull after a London season. I vow I am already a lifetime behind the fashions. Is’t true that prodigious bustles are the rage? And while I think of it I wish you would call at Madame Ronald’s and get the lylack lute-string scirt she is making for me.