Among these, two lurked in the shadow of the trees; they were Sir Robin and the Vicar. The former noted with deep joy that he had, by a happy chance, chosen a crimson color for his new suit, exactly corresponding to that of one of these gallants; that his cloak of sable hue was also quite the ton, and that he could thus, with ease, mingle with the party, and presently, no doubt, either discover Lady Peggy’s identity, or, more than likely, she herself would disclose the same to him, and at last reward his faithfulness and patience. No qualm visited the little gentleman’s conscience-pocket with regard to his supposed victim, although, it is true, he had given him a vicious thought as he had stood near the river’s bank waiting for Mr. Brummell’s barge to come in sight. So had Peggy, as she was being rowed past the old Dove Pier; into her mind and into Sir Percy’s had come the memory of the Sunday night, but he spoke of it no more than, certes, did she. Sir Robin, his cup overflowing with pleasurable anticipation and the gratified sense that the one who had sworn to take his life lay, fish-food, at the bottom of the Thames, flitted hither and yon, dragging the bewildered Vicar of Friskingdean in his wake. Wherever the company of Mr. Brummell wandered, there followed, hanging on to the fringe, as ’twere, these two, whom presently one-half the guests accepted as a matter of course to be of themselves. First, always followed by an admiring and gaping crowd, ’twas up and down the formal Walks somewhat sedately, for the masquerade, as has been said before, was at that period but just coming into vogue, and fine ladies and gentlemen were, at the outset of an evening, not as easy in their disguises as they became after a promenade in the unaccustomed duds; then, they formed a circle of mysterious appearance around the orchestra; then, ’twas into the Room to stare at the pictures through the peepholes of their masks; then a rush to gaze at the Cascade, which the whole of them, save Lady Peggy, Sir Robin and the Vicar, had seen a hundred times before; later, ’twas up and down the Walks again; and here Sir Robin at last made bold, having long since joined himself and the somewhat reluctant Vicar to a group of the Beau’s company, to address a few words, as it chanced, to the lively Lady Biddy O’Toole! It had seemed to him, after a careful survey of all, and having been able, by dint of his ears, to learn which was Kennaston, whose was the only personality so far in his possession, that Lady Biddy’s arch turn of the head was the most like to belong to the object of his passion. So up he springs, mincing, leaving the Vicar to huddle in the shade, and, pulling Her Ladyship’s mask-riband with a twitching finger and thumb, as he had seen others do just now, he said, very low, in her ear: “I’m sure I know who Your Ladyship is!” “Out with it,” says she, very low too. “It’s she whose image is writ on my heart,” answers he.