Part 25 (1/2)

”The d.u.c.h.ess!” her lips breathed, almost aloud, in her excitement. ”So you'd play hostess to his Majesty,” she thought, ”give a royal ball and leave poor Nelly home, would you?”

The d.u.c.h.ess was conscious only of a presence.

”_Garcon!_” she called, without looking up.

Nell jumped a foot.

”That shook me to the boots,” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, softly.

”_Garcon!_” again called the impatient d.u.c.h.ess.

”Madame,” answered Nell, fearfully, the words seeming to stick in her fair throat, as she hastily removed her hat and bethought her that she must have a care or she would lose her head as well, by forgetting that she was an Irishman with a brogue.

”Who are you?” asked Portsmouth, haughtily, as, rising, with surprised eyes, she became aware of the presence of a stranger.

Indeed, it is not strange that she was surprised. The youth who stood before her was dressed from top to toe in gray--the silver-gray which lends a colour to the cheek and piquancy to the form. The dress was of the latest cut. The hat had the longest plume. The cloak hung gracefully save where the glistening sword broke its falling lines. The boots were neat, well rounded and well cut, encasing a jaunty leg. The dress was edged with silver.

Ah, the strange youth was a love, indeed, with his bright, sparkling eyes, his lips radiant with smiles, his curls falling to his shoulders.

”Well,” stammered Nell, in awkward hesitation but in the richest brogue, as the d.u.c.h.ess repeated her inquiry, ”I'm just I, madame.”

The d.u.c.h.ess smiled despite herself.

”You're just you,” she said. ”That's very clear.”

”Yes, that's very clear,” reiterated Nell, still fearful of her ground.

”A modest masker, possibly,” suggested Portsmouth, observing the youth's embarra.s.sment and wis.h.i.+ng to a.s.sist him.

”Yea, very modest,” replied Nell, her speech still stumbling, ”almost ashamed.”

Portsmouth's eyes looked sharply at her.

”She suspects me,” thought Nell, and her heart leaped into her throat.

”I am lost--boots and all.”

”Your name?” demanded the d.u.c.h.ess again, impatiently.

For the life of her Nell could not think of it.

”You see,” she replied evasively, ”I'm in London for the first time in my present self, madame, and--”

”Your name and mission, sir?” The tone was imperative.

Nell's wits returned to her.

”Beau Adair is my name,” she stammered, ”and your service my mission.”

It was out, though it had like to have choked her, and Nell was more herself again. The worst she had feared was that the d.u.c.h.ess might discover her ident.i.ty and so turn the tables and make her the laughing-stock at court. She grew, indeed, quite hopeful as she observed a kindly smile play upon the d.u.c.h.ess's lips and caught the observation: ”Beau Adair! A pretty name, and quite a pretty fellow.”

A smile of self-satisfaction and a low bow were Nell's reply.