“’Slife, yes! Everybody knows that,” agreed Craven, leering over at March.
“Sir Robert Volney then was much taken with a Scotch girl who was visiting in London, and of course she dreamed air castles and fell in love with him. ’Twas Joan and Darby all the livelong day, but alack! the maid discovered, as maids will, that Sir Robert’s intentions were—not of the best, and straightway the blushing rose becomes a frigid icicle. Well, this Northern icicle was not to be melted, and Sir Robert was for trying the effect of a Surrey hothouse. In her brother’s absence he had the maid abducted and carried to a house of his in town.”
“’Slife! A story for a play. And what then?” cried Pink-and-White.
“Why then—enter Mr. Montagu with a ‘Stay, villain!’ It chanced that young Don Quixote was walking through the streets for the cooling of his blood mayhap, much overheated by reason of deep play. He saw, he followed, at a fitting time he broke into the apartment of the lady. Here Sir Robert discovered them——”
“The lady all unready, alackaday!” put in the Honourable Isabel, from behind a fan to hide imaginary blushes.
“Well, something easy of attire to say the least,” admitted Lady Di placidly.
“I’ faith then, Montagu must make a better lover than Sir Robert,” cried March.
“Every lady to her taste. And later they fought on the way to Surrey. Both wounded, no graves needed. The girl nursed Montagu back to health, and they fled to France together,” concluded the narrator.
“And the lady—is she such a beauty?” queried Beauclerc.
“Slidikins! I don’t know. She must have points. No Scotch mawkin would draw Sir Robert’s eye.”