This incomparable woman recovered herself, rose, summoned Pompey, and sent him forth with her letter to my Lord Mandeville’s groom. She watched its delivery, through the window, and having beheld the man start off again, returned to the centre of the room, made in silence a profound curtsy, which included her Lord and her visitor, and sailed forth, closing the door carefully behind her. My Lord let himself fall again into the arm-chair, and once more this article of furniture protested with ominous creaks and cracks. “There’s not a stick in the place, bejabers, that isn’t as rotten as pears. ’Pon my word,” grumbled Denis Kilcroney, “I wish the plaguey waters had never been discovered, I do indeed; ’tis a poor thing when a man’s own son and heir is made a weapon against him, and him but turned of three. ‘Little Denis is pale, and we must to Cheltenham. And we’ll lie at Lady Mandeville’s, which is on our way, my love’ (and it thirty miles out, taking the back and the forth of it). ‘And our little Denis will have a playfellow, ’twill be so vastly good for him. Little Impington and he will be comrades.’ And scarce are we settled at Impington Court with as good entertainment--aye--and as generous (’tis the cellar of the world my Lord Mandeville has, and ’tis as free with it he is--troth, as I’d be meself if my Lady’d let me, and I can give him no finer character!) No sooner are we settled, and scarce a cork drawn ye may say, but ’tis ‘Little Impington is too rough for our darling Denis. He will teach him ill ways, he will do him a hurt. And Impington Court is a thought too low for the child’s health. And we must move on to Cheltenham, my love, or there will not be a lodging to be had.’ And you should have seen the farewells, the clingings, the embracings, and the tears, and heard the promises. ‘We shall meet again soon, my dearest, dearest Rachel. I vow I’ll not be parted from the most cherished of my friends!’ And now ’tis: ‘Keep away--little Denis hath a spot!’ To be sure, our dearest Rachel must not cast a blight over my Lady’s Court prospects.” “But why, pray you, why, my Lord Kilcroney, should my Lady Mandeville cast a blight? Is she not in the Court favour?” Mistress Molly’s tones were as insinuating as the fillet of sweetness that issues from a flute; nevertheless, Denis, starting from his black mood, gave her a sudden odd look. “Prithee, why, my Lord?” Kitty was in the right of it. The little jade was as false as loaded dice! As if every one did not know poor Rachel’s story; how she had been a Quaker and an actress, and my Lord Mandeville’s mistress before she had been his wife; and how, save for that one stain, which, indeed, had been the fall of a pure woman piteously and devotedly in love, she had ever shone in a wicked world, the noblest example to her sex.