“Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, at your service, Mr. Brummell. I do protest, upon my oath! ’twas a marvelous device to spill me to borrow my tie. ’Tis yours, Sir, and the fashion of it, an you’ll do me the honor to accept a lesson.” “Sir Robin McTart!” echoes the Beau delightedly, “my old friend Sir Hector’s son and heir? I swear, boy, you favor not your sire. Peace to his soul, ’twas an ugly gentleman, while you, Sir,—Zounds! The ladies’ll make hay for you, I promise you. Where do you stop? Are you up in town long? What letters do you bring?” “The King’s Arms, Sir, in the Strand,” replies Peg glibly, while the Beau frowns. “I’m arrived but yesterday. I brought not a letter, Sir. There you have my history.” “No King’s Arms for Sir Hector’s son. You’ll home with me, lad; and I’ll show you what town life is. I’ll put you up at the best clubs, introduce you to the Prince; present you at Court; dine, wine, mount you,—Gadzooks, Sir Robin, the man that invented that tie of the lace!” tipping his finger at Lady Peggy’s home-made cravat, “deserves all and more than Brummell can do for him!” At which Peggy laughed the more heartily, as that she felt the paper beneath her coat skirts crack wider, and was spent wondering what she should do when they should reach Peter’s Court, and when she might be able to get into her Levantine once again. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] VI _In the which Sir Percy de Bohun’s own man goes on his master’s errand to Kennaston Castle, crossing Sir Robin McTart on the road._ Somewhat later in the day, as the sun peeped in at the narrow windows of Kennaston’s garret in Lark Lane, it shone straight down upon the face of Peg’s twin, and also upon that of Sir Percy de Bohun, just returned, after a tub and a grooming at the hands of his faithful man Grigson, who even now was performing like offices for the young host. The other gentlemen had long since been set upon their legs and fetched off to their homes by their men. Percy held his chin between his palms, his elbows resting upon the table where cards and glasses still littered. “’Sdeath, Kennaston,” cries he, without moving. “I can live this fashion no longer! To be shot like a partridge would be better. Flouted by Peggy, derided by this upstart Sir Robin, who, by my life! is a pretty fellow all said and done, is past endurance! Give me a pistol, Grigson, and I’ll put an end of myself now and here.” To this passionate declaration, Kennaston merely makes answer by lifting an arm above the tub, waving it in the air, and, as Grigson scrubs him down, wagging his wet head and remarking: “Don’t be damned ridiculous, Percy, and pray hold your peace, since I am at this moment composing an ode to my mistress’s smile.”