“’Taint no more in this world fine gentlemen sighin’ and dyin’ for me! no wedding favors and cake; no husband, no children; never! for there’s no marryin’ in heaven, an I ever get there! Nay, ‘Peggy Burgoyne’ ’ll be writ on my tombstone, and like as not the lines followin’ ’ll be ’a maker of most uncommon fine sweetmeats and cheeses’!” Another flood of tears, and then My Lady Peggy, obeying that well-balanced head of hers, brushes them away and proceeds to plan out her homeward journey, and to administer a cunning retouch of the cosmetics she had erstwhile bought of the players’ apothecary in Drury Lane. ’Tis clear now, as it has been from the start, that she may not quit Mr. Brummell’s house in other than man’s attire, nor, so far as she can see, will it be possible for her to resume her own garments at any inn, or time, or place, before she reaches Kennaston, which she means to do ere night falls; and then the stableyard, where she knows Chockey will be milking, once gained, a cloak, the casting of Sir Robin’s wig, and Her Ladyship feels certain she can enter her father’s home unnoticed beneath the shelter of the faithful Chockey’s argus eye. But, though neatly laid, Her Ladyship’s project was not quite yet to go into execution. Even as she was once more taking out the bundle from its hiding-place and tying up in it the long tail of her cut hair, she heard a hum of noises, voices below, inquiring if Sir Robin had as yet reached the house, and evidently obtaining an affirmative answer, for,— “Where is the hero? Our hero! Our hero!” “Where is our highwayman? Our highwayman!” “Where is Tom Kidde, the gallant? The gallant of gallants!” And a lot of such merry cries came echoing up the staircase and corridor toward her room. Lady Peggy had utterly forgot the hanging. The more recent matter of Percy and the assassins had put her own adventure completely out of her head. For the first time she realized that she had not seen either Mr. Brummell or any of his company since she had unwillingly been borne away from them by Homing Nell in the midst of Epstowe Forest. ’Twas a halt she had not counted on; but, clapping on wig and coat, she flung wide the door, and was presently raised on the shoulders of Sir Wyatt and His Grace of Escombe and borne triumphantly down to the dining-room and placed in a chair of honor at the supper-table, whence, what with toasts, songs, stories, acclaims, wonders, amazements, applause, Florence wine, cards, etc., etc., this gallant company did not arise (or some of them slip under) until seven on Monday morning. Her Ladyship got up from the mahogany with but one-pound-ten in her pockets, and a surmise in her head as to how far this sum would take her on her homeward way.