"No, no!" breathed Esther with veiled eyes. "But, my child," said her aunt in a lowered tone, "you are unreasonable. This boy appears to know his business; besides, he has worked for the French court. Moreover, time presses." "If Miss Woodville will deign to intrust her head to my care, all will be well," added the would-be hairdresser. Esther saw there was no help for it but to yield. Suffused with blushes and pouting, though deeply moved, she took her chair before the mirror. "What style will it please you this evening,--_capricieuse_ or _tout amiable_? But I am wrong: a face like yours demands a suitable accompaniment. Esther Woodville--pardon my liberty of speech--should have her hair dressed _à la_ Esther Woodville!" "Anybody can see at a glance that you came from Paris," interposed Mrs. Marsham; "you know how to pay compliments. I fear that your talents may stop there, and that your comb is by no means the equal of your tongue." "Madam shall be the judge. By his work is the artist known." With a firm, experienced hand he seized the loosened tresses which overspread the girl's shoulders. Bending above her, inhaling her very personality, he spoke not, he hardly breathed, overcome by the violence of his emotions; while she, bending slightly forward, maintained a strange immobility. A cloud passed before his eyes; his brain reeled. Could he maintain the mastery of himself sufficiently to play the comedy to the end? All at once a confused turmoil arose from the street below. Mrs. Marsham pricked up her ears. "Can it be the king already?" she exclaimed. In order to understand the true import of those two monosyllables, "the king," for the good lady, we must go back a quarter of a century to the time when George III., aged sixteen years, still dwelt in Leicester Fields with his mother, the Dowager Princess of Wales. Never did he pass through Long Acre on his way to the theatre, of which he was a constant patron, without casting a timid glance at pretty Sarah Lightfoot, where she sat at the desk in her father's shop, with her snow-white gown, her folded kerchief, and her glossy tresses innocent of powder. The young Quakeress would bend her head with a light blush beneath the mute and tender contemplation of those big, guileless eyes, undoubtedly more eloquent than their owner had any idea they were. The royal child would pause for a moment, and, heaving a sigh, would continue his way with his unequal, halting gait.