After quitting Sir Robin, Her Ladyship, jingling the few shillings that now remained to her, since purchasing unguents and the mask and cloak necessary for the approaching festivity, suddenly made up her mind to escape at once, to leave the bundle of her clothes, her shorn tresses, and whatever else beside to tell what tale they might, and, here and now, to shake the dust of London from her feet forever. And to this end she was about to summon a chair to start her as far on her journey as her purse would permit, when out comes Mr. Brummell himself from the shop of Monsieur Jabot, and links his arm in hers with his accustomed pleasant familiarity and easy condescension. “’Pon honor!” exclaims the Beau. “Well met, Sir! Since you were nigh hanged, Sir, I’ve not had too much of your agreeable company. I’d have you know I’m just from Monsieur Jabot’s back room, where, the whiles I took a dish of tea, I explained the riddles of your most amazin’ twist of the lace. Faith, Robin, ’twas a lucky hour for me, when, having left a pile of failures, so high! in the corner of my dressing-room, I beheld your cravat and bade my man knock you down!” Lady Peggy laughs. The cool audacity of Beau Brummell is a relief after the mawkish sighs of the little scoundrel she has just parted from, and, hoping that Mr. Brummell will soon spy either one of the Fair or a Royal Highness, and so be diverted from her side, she bows and answers: “Robin McTart must ever account that a lucky day for him, Sir!” “Hark ye, my young buck,” proceeds the Beau. “Monsieur Jabot is so enchanted with your manner of the cravat that to-day, with my compliments, he introduces it at Court! And since I’ve been seen with it,” adds he pompously, “’tis sure, by this day week, to be the height of the mode!” “Aye?” responds Her Ladyship, a-wondering how she can best get away. “Aye!” echoes her companion in a monstrous amazement. “Rot me! Sir, but such a distinction’s not often conferred upon a young gentleman up in town for the first time. What’s the matter with you, boy?” cries he, turning to observe Her Ladyship’s somewhat absent-minded aspect. “Naught, I swear!” cries she, recovering herself. “’Sdeath! Robin, are ye in love?” asks the Beau, taking a pinch of snuff and tendering his box, as, attended by all eyes, the two make their way down Piccadilly, betwixt ogling ladies in their chairs and chariots, gallants, dowagers; each, all, mincing and la-la-ing as they go. Her Ladyship inclines her head. She is well pleased to speak truth when she can. “By Gad! Mr. Brummell, you’ve hit the mark,” says she. “Sleep not o’ nights? fickle at your meat? wake sighing? dream of patches, smiles, and dainty fingers? mistrust yourself? easily affronted? believe the whole world’s pointing at you in raillery? take no pleasure in horse, man, gun or dog? loathe all the Fair, save one? love solitude?”