No sooner said than done. Just at the instant when Peggy recalled her position and was bewilderedly wondering where she had wandered to, clutching her bundle and all of a muddle, click! grazed coach-wheels against her shins, cock went her hat into the puddle, but, heaven be praised! her wig clung, and she clung to her bundle; out of coach the pink brocade gentleman, down from the rumble his footman, pick up Lady Peggy, hat and all, rubbing the mud out of her silk stockings, clapping her hands; yet relented she not from the bundle, and all a-breath the loller cries: “Into my coach, Sir! I do humbly crave pardon, Sir, I do indeed. I’ll not take no for an answer, Sir, not by my oath! Such a damage from one gentleman to another, Sir, demands all the reparation possible, Sir,” and forthwith Peggy is lifted into the splendid coach and the splendid gentleman springs in after her, and the footmen jump up and the whip cracks, and off they whirl before she can open her mouth. “Mr. Brummell at your service, Sir,” continues he, feeling of Peg’s palm, noting the wound at her wrist, and the pallor of her face which shines even though the coffee stains. “We’re en route to Peter’s Court where my surgeon shall attend you. ’Slife! Sir, you’re not hurt, I’m sure. I told Worthing not to endanger a hair of your head and it’s impossible he should have disobeyed me!” Peggy hears this singular string of speeches and, although stunned a bit and not a little alarmed in her mind, she has country breeding at her back and such a robust constitution as rallies on the spot. “I’d be obliged, Mr. Brummell, if you’d set me down at once, Sir! I’m none the worse, and I’ve business of import calling me far hence, and with dispatch.” “Never, Sir, never!” returns Beau Brummell, with an impressive wave of his jeweled hand. “Zounds! Sir, I had you spilled to get me the pattern and fashion of tying your cravat from you! and split me! if I let you go until I’ve mastered that adorable knot! I’ve my reputation at stake, Sir, for the tying of ’em. You’ve outdone me at your throat, Sir, and ’tis Beau Brummell, the best dressed and worst imitated man in Europe, that has the honor of telling you so. Come, come, Sir,” continues this nonesuch, famed alike at Court and brawl for his finery and drollery, “out with your name, Sir, I beg, and render me your eternally grateful.” Lady Peggy’s gaze falls inadvertently on the bundle across her knees; it begins to bulge and burst the paper and string, indeed a tape of her petticoat is oozing out even now as she pokes it back, hiding its tell-tale under the skirt of her coat. “’Slife!” says Peggy to herself in a terrible heat. “An I must stop a man, I must. God’s will—or the Devil’s, as dad says—be done!” and forthwith she tucks up her knee, lays hand on sword-hilt, laughs quite merrily and answers: