Every one agreed that the long dry summer menaced some catastrophic change which should surprise this easy-going age as the plague had done last year. But oh, how lightly that widespread calamity had touched those light minds! and, if Providence had designed to warn or to punish, how vain had been the warning, and how soon forgotten the penalty that had left the worst offenders unstricken! There was to be a play at Whitehall that evening, his Majesty and the Court having returned from Tunbridge Wells, the business of the navy calling Charles to council with his faithful General—_the_ General _par excellence_, George Monk, Duke of Albemarle, and his Lord High Admiral and brother—_par excellence_ the Duke. Even in briefest residence, and on sternest business intent, with the welfare and honour of the nation contingent on their consultations, to build or not to build warships of the first magnitude, the ball of pleasure must be kept rolling. So Killigrew was to produce a new version of an old comedy, written in the forties, but now polished up to the modern style of wit. This new-old play, _The Parson’s Widow_, was said to be all froth and sparkle and current interest, fresh as the last _London Gazette_, and spiced with allusions to the late sickness, an admirable subject, and allowing a wide field for the ridiculous. Hyacinth was to be present at this Court function; but not a word was to be said to Angela about the entertainment. “She would only preach me a sermon upon Fareham’s tastes and wishes, and urge me to stay away because he abhors a fashionable comedy,” she told De Malfort, “I shall say I am going to Lady Sarah’s to play basset. Ange hates cards, and will not desire to go with me. She is always happy with the children, who adore her.” “Faute de mieux.” “You are so ready to jeer! Yes, I know I am a neglectful mother. But what would you have?” “I would have you as you are,” he answered, “and only as you are; or for choice a trifle worse than you are; and so much nearer my own level.” “Oh, I know you! It is the wicked women you admire—like Madame Palmer.” “Always harping upon Barbara. ‘My mother had a maid called Barbara.’ His Majesty has—a lady of the same melodious name. Well, I have a world of engagements between now and nine o’clock, when the play begins. I shall be at the door to lift you out of your chair. Cover yourself with your richest jewels—or at least those you love best—so that you may blaze like the sun when you cast off the nun’s habit. All the town will be there to admire you.” “All the town! Why, there is no one in London!” “Indeed, you mistake. Travelling is so easy nowadays. People tear to and fro between Tunbridge and St James’s as often as they once circulated betwixt London and Chelsea. Were it not for the highwaymen we should be always on the road.”