“No matter for my name, Sir, I have Lady Peggy’s best interests at heart, and yours. She bade me, did ever I encounter you in evil neighborhood, tell you, for her sake, eschew it. Hark ye! Sir Robin, out of this hole as fast as your men’s legs can carry you. Above yonder, ’s one who’s sworn to kill you!” “Who’s he?” demands Sir Robin, one foot now in his sedan, his little eyes twinkling both ways with fright. “Sir Percy de Bohun,” replies Peg in a hollow whisper. “Look you, Sir,” showing her bloody wrist, “there’s a taste of his quality. I warn you—’tis from Peggy’s own self—get back to Kent, whence you came, and tarry not, for your life’s at yonder desperado’s mercy while you linger up in town.” “Is My Lady Peggy returned to Kent to her godmother?” quavers Sir Robin, now well inside his chair. “Nay, Sir; as her brother supposes, she’s at home at Kennaston.” “I’ll seek her there!” cries Sir Robin, tendering his hand. “And, Sir, my humble duty and gratitude to you for your admirable condescension. I would I knew your name and station.” “I’m up in town incognito, Sir, for a lady’s sake,” smiles the minx. “When I return, Sir, I’ll seek you out at White’s or Will’s. I dare be sworn so fine a gentleman must needs be a buck of the first order.” “Seek me, Sir, and Godspeed you down to Kennaston or Kent!” At the word, Sir Robin in his chair sets forth a-swinging round the corner, light of heart and bright of hope, while the subject and object of his thoughts and passion stands for a moment leaning, sighing, betwixt laughter and tears, against the door-frame. My Lady Peggy’s first impulse is to cut and run; indeed her slim legs are so stretched to begin, when the remembrance of poor Chock in her garret cage comes to her mind, and, with a grimace, she turns in, jumps up the stairs, and is in the midst of the group, now well on in their cups and more hilarious than orderly in their conversation. Peg was not her father’s girl for naught that night. To the tune of three hundred pounds, fourteen and six, was she the richer, and rewarded for the many dreary evenings she had spent at Kennaston, a-watching her father win and lose with the Vicar and the Bishop, whenever the latter came on his visits. By dint of spilling her wine deftly under the table, she had emptied as many mugs as the best bibber among ’em, and at four in the morning found herself the only one who was sober, or even awake. ’Twas not a beautiful sight thus to behold, in the pale pink of the dawn, a dozen or so of merry gentlemen a-sprawling about on floor, tables, chairs,—a-snoring and a-tossing in their sleep; but ’twas of the fashion of the times when, to be a fine gentleman, one must be drunk, at the least, once in the twenty-four hours.