"But," he continued, reverting to the topic with which they started, "morals apart, I've never seen a thing to give one such an idea of woman's power as she does--in that curious Indian dance. 'Tis a wonderful picture, or rather embodiment, of feminine voluptuousness." "All that I admit," returned the Major. "But for true womanly grace-- ay, _abandon_, but of a very different kind--you should see a cousin she has, a real English girl, or, to speak more correctly, Welsh." "All the same. But who is the cousin so highly endowed?" "A Miss Powell, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, who, I'm sorry to say, is not on our side; instead, one of our bitterest enemies." "Might you mean Master Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead House, up in the Forest of Dean?" "The same. Your Lordship seems to know him?" "Certainly I do, or did; for it's several years since I've seen him. But he had two daughters then, Sabrina and Vaga. One is not likely to forget the names. Are not both still living?" "Oh yes." "The elder, Sabrina, was nearly grown up when I saw them last, the other but a slip; but both promised to be great beauties." "If your Lordship saw them now, you'd say the promise has been kept. They are that, beyond cavil or question." "But from what you've said, I take it you regard one of them as superior to the other. Which, may I ask? At a guess I'd say Sabrina. As a girl I liked her looks best; came near liking them too well. Ha-ha! Have I guessed correctly?" "The reverse, my Lord; that is, according to my ideas of beauty." "Then you award the palm to Vaga?" "Decidedly." "Well, Major, I won't question your judgment, as I can't till I've seen the sisters again. No doubt they will be much changed since I had the pleasure of last meeting them. But they should now be of an age to get married; Sabrina certainly. Is there no talk of that?" "There is, my Lord." "Regarding which?" "Regarding both." "Ah! And who the respective favourites?" "Say respective _finances_, your Lordship. They're engaged. So report has it." "And who are to be the Benedicts? Who is Mistress Sabrina to make happy?" "Sir Richard Walwyn, 'tis said." "Dick Walwyn, indeed! An old classmate of mine at Oxford. Well, she might do worse. And the little yellow-haired sprout? She was a bright blonde, I remember, with wonderful tresses, like a Danae's shower. Who's to be the possessor of all that auriferous wealth?" "One of the Trevors." "There's one of them on the Prince's staff, I understand. Is it he?" "No; a cousin--son of Sir William of Abergavenny." "What! the young stripling who used to be at Court--one of the gentlemen ushers?" "The same, my Lord." "Quite an Adonis he; so the Queen thought, 'twas said. Mistress Vaga must have all the fascinations you credit her with to have made conquest of him. But he's not with the King now?"