“I think you wrong the one enlightened spot in the kingdom, madam—Whitehall. We must petition his Majesty to order Sir Christopher to build you an academy, where we can institute you a new Hypatia. But I gather that your philosophy would not end in oyster shells. For the rest—I have a favor to ask.” “I am listening.” “Suffer me to introduce a very dull virgin into your atmosphere. I want to convert her. She has a conscience.” Hortense’s eyes met his frankly. “So have I, my friend.” “I do not question it. But the child I speak of has not learned to laugh.” “Deplorable!” “She is a tax in sulkiness upon her mother. The poor woman is weary of living with a corpse. In my humanity—I remembered you.” “Bring her to me.” “We shall be your debtors.” “At least—I will tell you whether she will ever laugh. What mischief have we brewing now?” Tom Temple had bethought himself of some fresh piece of boyish buffoonery, in which the girl whom he had drawn to victory in the chariot-race had joined him. It was nothing more complex than a game of double blind-man’s buff. The furniture was pushed aside into corners, and the salon prepared for a lively chase. “Hortense, Hortense, come and play!” It was little Anne of Sussex, Castlemaine’s child, whisking a scarf in one hand, while she held her skirts up with the other. “Tom Temple and I are to be blind first. I am to catch the men, he—the ladies.” Lord Gore made her a grand obeisance. “I will stand wilfully in the middle of the room, madam, and be caught.” “Then you will have to give me three pairs of gloves. But you are too large, my lord; we should always be catching you.” “Like a leviathan in a fish-pond, eh?” “Or an elephant in a parlor. Bind my eyes up, Hortense, and please pin up my skirts.” The Mancini humored her. “Are you ready, Tom?” “At your command,” said the youth, whom a friend had blindfolded. “Turn me, Hortense; one, two, three. Now—have at all of you. If I catch you—Tom—cry carrots.” My lord and Hortense stepped back toward the window to watch the fun. “It is just like the marriage market,” said she. “Catch what you can,” he retorted, “and find out what sort of thing it is—afterward.” There was a great deal of scampering and laughing, of creeping into corners and huddling against walls. In the very glory of a stampede, when Tom Temple had sailed straight with his arms spread for a bunch of girls, the salon door opened, and a servant announced: “My Lord Sussex.” The dramatic humor of the moment was missed by all save Hortense and Lord Gore, so briskly and indiscriminately went the chase. My lord pursed up his lips and whistled with a significant lifting of the eyebrows. Hortense stifled a laugh.