Lady Sarah Tewkesbury, gorgeous in velvet and fur, her thickly painted countenance framed in a furred hood, entered fussily upon a little coterie in which Masaroon, vapouring about the last performance at the King’s theatre, was the principal figure. “There was a little woman spoke the epilogue,” he said, “a little creature in a monstrous big hat, as large and as round as a cart-wheel, which vastly amused his Majesty.” “The hat?” “Nay, it was woman and hat. The thing is so small it might have been scarce noticed without the hat, but it has a pretty little, insignificant, crumpled face, and laughs all over its face till it has no eyes, and then stops laughing suddenly, and the eyes shine out, twinkling and dancing like stars reflected in running water, and it stamps its little foot upon the stage in a comic passion—and—_nous verrons_. It sold oranges in the pit, folks tell me, a year ago. It may be selling sinecures and captaincies in a year or two, and putting another shilling in the pound upon land.” “Is it that brazen little comedy actress you are talking of, Masaroon?” Lady Sarah asked, when she had exchanged curtsies with the ladies of the company, and established herself on the most comfortable tabouret, near Lady Fareham’s tea-table; “Mrs. Glyn—Wynn—Gwyn? I wonder a man of wit can notice such a vulgar creature, a she-jack-pudden, fit only to please the rabble in the gallery.” “Ay, but there is a finer sort of rabble—a rabble of quality—beginning with his Majesty, that are always pleased with anything new. And this little creature is as fresh as a spring morning. To see her laugh, to hear the ring of it, clear and sweet as a skylark’s song! On my life, madam, the town has a new toy; and Mrs. Gwyn will be the rage in high quarters. You should have seen Castlemaine’s scowl when Rowley laughed, and ducked under the box almost, in an ecstasy of amusement at the huge hat.” “Lady Castlemaine’s brow would thunder-cloud if his Majesty looked at a fly on a window-pane. But she has something else to provoke her frowns to-day.” “What is that, chère dame?” asked Hyacinth, snatching a favourite fan from Sir Ralph, who was teasing one of the Blenheims with African feathers that were almost priceless. “The desertion of an old friend. The Comte de Malfort has left England.” Lady Fareham turned livid under her rouge. Angela ran to her and leant over her, upon a pretence of rescuing the fan and chiding the dogs; and so contrived to screen her sister’s change of complexion from the malignity of her dearest friends. “Left England! Why, he is confined to his bed with a fever!” Hyacinth said faintly, when she had somewhat recovered from the shock. “Nay, it seems that he began to go abroad last week, but would see no company, except a confidential friend or so. He left London this morning for Dover.”