“I’ve news for you, of one you’re a-dyin’ for, of Lady Peggy Burgoyne!” exclaims she triumphantly. “What! What!” comes simultaneously from behind each of the masks she addresses. “Aye; I’m after learning from, whom, think you?” “Proceed, for the love of God, Madam!” says Percy, very low. “From him that’s supposed to be her husband, Sir Robin McTart, that mistook me for her,” Biddy titters, “that she’s here to-night by an appointment with him, made by a trusted servant of hers, called 'Mr. Incognito’; sent to meet Sir Robin before the shop of Monsieur Jabot in Holborn; and he’s not seen Her Ladyship,—I mean Sir Robin’s not seen her since they were sojourning in Kent together! and there’s a mystery for you! And I made excuses and left him a-standin’ by the lion, for I could no longer contain the news, but must run back to him now to extract the rest of it. Pray heaven, Lady Peggy herself comes not by, and lets out that I was not she at all, at all!” “Good God!” murmurs Percy under his breath, as Biddy rattles on. “Can this thing be? and what does it all mean?” Restraining Lady Biddy, both he and Lady Diana endeavor to quiet her abounding spirits, and to gain from her the detailed account of her encounter with Sir Robin. Percy, in the midst of her voluble tongue and her giggling, striving to form some plan of action which shall this night bring matters to the touch between himself and the Baronet and leave one or t’other of ’em stiff and stark. Meantime, Sir Robin, with greedy eyes fixed on Lady Biddy, so long as he can see her, and until she and her companions withdraw into a box, stands as if at one with the wooden lion; presently, however, his gaze is diverted hither and yon, not only by the playful and engaging remarks of various young ladies who challenge his mask in the most direct and obliging fashion, but by a certain Figure which he beholds moving about aimlessly, it would seem, and alone, beneath the dark shadows of the trees toward the river. There is something in this Figure’s motions, although cloaked and masked,—therefore, the Baronet notes, one of Mr. Brummell’s party,—which strikes him as familiar, and when, presently, the unknown lifts mask and reveals the countenance behind it, Sir Robin sidles up, one eye on the wooden lion of his tryst, however, and plucking Lady Peggy by the arm, says: “Ho! Mr. Incognito!” Peggy turns, and betwixt disgust, dismay, horror, and amusement, remains silent. “’Tis I, Sir, Robin McTart,” lifting his own mask a trifle to assure his companion of his identity. “Soh!” returns she, “I do perceive.” “Oh, Mr. Incognito, what do I not owe to your being in My Lady’s employ! She is indeed here.” Her Ladyship, taking this for a question, answers thus, with emphasis: “Yes, she’s here—indeed.” “I have seen her,” sighs the little Baronet, leaning his head, just exactly the height of Her Ladyship’s own, down on Peggy’s shoulder in an excess of sensibility.