“Dear Mr. Incognito,” pants Sir Robin, “how fares My Lady? Tell me, I beseech you!” “She fares but ill, Sir,” answers she, making to proceed. “No, no, not so fast, I implore; oh, Sir, I die for her!” “Very well, Sir, she is willing. I am pressed for time and must away.” “One word. You say she’s willing I should die for her?” “Oh, Sir Robin, importune me no further. I know not what she’s willing for!” “Now, now,” soothes the Baronet. “We’re well met, Mr. Incognito, that I’m assured of; and that Lady Peggy’d far rather I’d live than die for her,” leers he, “since for the sake of communicating with me she’s at, no doubt, great expenses in maintaining you?” At this Her Ladyship laughs, as many a lady may do any day, at the strange construction a man who is blessed with vanity contrives to put upon her actions. “’Tis so, I know’t!” exclaims he, grinning unctuously. “Now, Sir, tell me, goes she—” his voice sinks to a whisper as he applies his mouth nigh to Peg’s ear—“goes she to Vauxhall in Beau Brummell’s party, along with her brother, o’ Tuesday night?” A thousand thoughts rush helter-skelter through Her Ladyship’s brain, pro and con the answering of this query. Presently, sedately, at the corner of the street, says she, with no smallest notion of the import or the outcome of her words, merely uttered as a light and easy means of make-off: “Go and see!” and she disappears from view. “By jingo!” rattles the gentleman from Kent to himself, as he jumps into a hackney-coach and tools out to the Puffled Hen. “But she loves me! Curse me! but I believe she’s had that incognito rascal at upwards probably of ten shillings a day, just on purpose to watch for my appearance, and so to glean tidings of my welfare! Without a doubt ’tis by her commands he said that ‘go and see.’ Zounds! I’ll do’t, with the Vicar to bear me out,” adds this prudent lover, “should any disagreeable incident occur between me and any one of these coxcombs with their town ways. Damn ’em, tho’! with a secret affair going on betwixt me and Peggy, I can snap my fingers at His Gracious Majesty himself, should we encounter!” Well pleased, therefore, with himself, Sir Robin descended at the Puffled Hen and bestowed upon the cabman out of that abundance of the heart which occasionally causes the pocket, as well as the heart, to speak—two-pence. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] XIV _In this same Sir Robin believes he meets his Fair: and Lady Biddy O’Toole is the means of putting the whole Gardens into a vast commotion._