Indifferent then, as though the outgoing damsel were no concern of hers, presently, with a swagger, yet ill-concealing the anxiety she felt afresh as now sobs and female voices assailed her ears, the mock Sir Robin McTart emerged upon the street. There halted a chair between the posts. In the chair sat Lady Diana Weston accompanied by her woman. Both wept and trembled, while still afar the stout lungs of the terrified giant shouted: “Watch!” Peg stood still and stared; all the jealous blood in her burned in her cheeks. Lady Diana here! and wherefore? and at such an untoward hour; veil displaced, eyes red, but still most undeniably handsome, nay beautiful. “Oh Sir!” cried Lady Diana beseechingly, raising two imploring hands outside the chair door toward Lady Peggy. “I pray of your honor!” whimpered the Abigail in concert. “I implore your protection, Sir, as you are a gentleman and man of honor, as your mien disposes me. I came here but now and sent my footman up to the rooms of a—a friend, who is ill, Sir,—with a token of regard in the shape of fruit and flowers, when the man must have been set upon by thieves and beaten, for he—” “I heard him,” finishes Peg, stepping nearer to the chair. “And I assure you, Madam, I put the varlet who attacked him to his pace with a prick. If I can serve you further, command me.” As My Lady bows low, she is conscious that it now behooves her to state concisely her name and station; and, loathing and hating the deception more than she could express, she still adds (her motive not unmixed with the natural curiosity to discover who is the object of Lady Diana’s morning call): “Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, at Your Ladyship’s service.” Diana bows, blushes, almost ogles, minx that she is, noting well the fine eyes and beautiful mouth of the gallant at her side. “Lady Diana Weston, Sir Robin, daughter to the Earl of Brookwood, at your service.” Peg bows, hat in hand, bundle under arm. Swift as youth’s impulse ever is, says she, taking lightning-like measure of her chance and determined to probe matters to their core: “Your Ladyship’s name was on the lips above,” nodding up at Kennaston’s windows. “I drank the toast with a will, I do assure you, and would double it now. Surely, if you’ll allow me to say so, Sir Percy de Bohun’s a gentleman of a rare good taste, likewise Lord Kennaston, Sir Wyatt Lovell, half-a-dozen more a-pledging Your Ladyship to the tune of _nonpareil_ all night long.” “You flatter, Sir, I do protest!” cried the lady in the chair, blushing like the reddest rose that grows, but who might say for whose sake? since Peg had named so many.