The Beau, himself, reclined on his great bedstead with its fine tester, a half dozen of pillows richly laced at his head; a flowered gown about his shoulders, his night-cap on, a coverlet embroidered by the Chinese over him, his snuff-box at hand, reading aloud from the damp and freshly arrived print whilst Sir Wyatt, Lord Escombe, Mr. Jack Chalmers, and a dozen more sat or stood, cup in fingers, ’twixt lip and saucer, hearkening, eager, to the news. “’Tis by this on the tip of every tongue in town that there occurred last night at Lady B——d’s rout an encounter (the second within a se’ennight), betwixt Sir P——y de B——n and a certain young gentleman from Kent whose handsome face, genteel manners, and dashing behavior, have conspired to place him in so brief a time at the very height of favor in society, and more especially in the eyes of Lady D——a W——n. It had been supposed that the affair recounted in these pages as having taken place in the chambers of Lord K——n of K——n was on account solely of the above mentioned adorable young scion of a noble house. We are in a position to assure the world of fashion that such is not the case, and that both the unfortunate disputes betwixt these two gallants are to be laid to the door of Lady P——y B——e, sister to Lord K——n. Report hath it that Her Ladyship is in London; rumor contradicts report and avers that the fair one has not stirred from home. The issue is awaited with interest, as the verbatim account of an unsuspected elopement may be looked for at any moment. Safe to say the vivacious Lady P——y B——e, whom the town hath never had the pleasure of beholding, has succeeded in stirring Mayfair to its depths and has been the cause already of a very pretty pair of quarrels between two young gentlemen of the first quality.” “’Slife!” cried Beau Brummell. “Who now the devil’s Lady P——y?” “By the dragon, himself, I never heard that Kennaston had a sister!” said Lord Wootton and Mr. Vane at once. “Yes!” exclaims Sir Wyatt, tapping his forehead, recollectively, “I do recall that Sir Robin McTart, the night we were at Kennaston’s chambers, entered with the presentation of a letter of introduction from ‘Lady Peggy Burgoyne to her brother,’ and ’sdeath! ’twas, I believe, she about whom they fought, too!” “Ha! ’tis not only Lady Di, then, that’s at the bottom of their quarrel after all,” says Mr. Brummell, reflectively. “Where is the fair one?” asks Escombe. “Who knows that?” “Faith! no one. Stop! Sir Robin must know, since ’tis for her he unsheathes twice in a week,” cries the host. “Where is he?” “Bring him in!” “Send for Sir Robin!” is the cry of the company. “Zooks! Sirs, but our reputations as gallants are broken up, an we’ve not seen her of whom the prints speak thus!” says the Beau, adding at once: