“You flatter me in seeking to reprove,” Etheredge laughed. “To be callow despite the years is to bear the mark of greatness. Whom the gods love are callow always; for whom the gods love die young, whatever be their age.” “You aim at paradox, I suppose. God help me!” “No paradox at all. Whom the gods love never grow old,” Etheredge explained himself. “They never come to suffer as do you from jaded appetites.” “You may be right,” his grace admitted gloomily. “Prescribe me a tonic.” “That is what I was doing: Sylvia Farquharson, at the Duke’s House.” “Bah! A play actress! A painted doll on wires! Twenty years ago your prescription might have served.” “You admit that you grow old. Superfluous admission! But this, let me perish, is no painted doll. This is an incarnation of beauty and talent.” “So I’ve heard of others that had neither.” “And let me add that she is virtuous.” Buckingham stared at him, opening his lazy eyes. “What may that be?” he asked. “The chief drug in my prescription.” “But does it exist, or is your callowness deeper than I thought?” quoth Buckingham. “Come and see,” Mr. Etheredge invited him. “Virtue,” Buckingham objected, “is not visible.” “Like beauty, it dwells in the beholder’s eye. That’s why you’ve never seen it, Bucks.” To the Duke’s playhouse in Lincoln’s Inn Fields his disgruntled grace suffered himself, in the end, to be conducted. He went to scoff. He remained to worship. You already know--having overheard the garrulous Mr. Pepys--how from his box, addressing his companion in particular and the whole house in general, the ducal author loudly announced that he would give his muse no rest until he should have produced a play with a part worthy of the superb talents of Miss Farquharson. His words were reported to her. They bore with them a certain flattery to which it was impossible that she should be impervious. She had not yet settled herself completely into this robe of fame that had been thrust upon her. She continued unspoiled, and she did not yet condescendingly accept such utterances from the great as no more than the proper tribute to her gifts. Such praise from one so exalted, himself a distinguished author and a boon companion of the King’s, set a climax upon the triumphs that lately she had been garnering. It prepared her for the ducal visit to the green room, which followed presently. She was presented by Mr. Etheredge with whom she was already acquainted, and she stood shyly before the tall, supremely elegant duke, under the gaze of his bold eyes.