He fell suddenly quiet, and a momentary surprised silence depressed the company. It did not last long. All were shortly in a final bustle of preparation for the ball. The ladies were bowed, the Bœotians melted, from the room. The two gentlemen were left to their wine; the elder’s eyes twinkled back the ruddy glow of the decanters. “Come, my lord,” says he, “you are staid company, I vow. A toast or two before we leave the table.” “‘Here’s to the widow of fifty!’” cries Ned, adapting from the great man himself, and raising his glass. The other laughed. “I drink her,” he said. “A full bumper to Mrs Sims!” “’Twas Madame de Genlis I meant.” “And I meant the mother of Pamela.” “You take it so, then?” “I take the child, at least,” said Sheridan evasively, “to be ‘the queen of curds and cream.’” Ned was, of course, not ignorant of the scandal attaching to this little waif of royalty. It made no difference in his regard for her, though perhaps the other wished it might. Mr Sheridan, maybe, had shot a tiny bolt of jealousy--a tentative hint as to the vulgar origin of the pigwidgeon. It missed fire, and that gave him a thrill of annoyance. He was conscious of some actual resentment against this solemn suitor who had come into his field of enamoured observation. He did not fear him; but he wished him out of the way, that he might flirt in peace. At the same time he may have possibly undervalued the determination of his reticent adversary. “Well,” said Ned, “here’s to the mother of Pamela, whoever she be!” “With all my heart,” cried Sheridan, “and to the father, by the same token.” Ned turned his calm eyes so as to look into the injected orbs of his companion. “What manner of presence hath monsieur the Duke of Orleans?” said he; “it was never my fortune to happen on him in Paris.” “He is a friend of mine, sir,” said Sheridan. “From what point of view am I to describe him? His enemies--of whom there are many in England--say that the fruit of evil buds in his face. Egad! I was near seeing it break into flower once. ’Twas at Vauxhall, when the company turned him its back. He would have thought like a Caligula then, I warrant. A prince, sir, something superior to the worst in him, which is all that men will recognise.” “But his personal appearance?” said Ned. The other returned the young man’s gaze with a thought of insolence. “Am I to smoke you?” he said. “Mademoiselle d’Orléans is a little like her father in expression; but our Pamela is not at all like Mademoiselle d’Orléans.” Ned came to an immediate resolution.