“And what would be the good of a rose-point flounce to me, when I should be dropped dead in the Queen’s apartment, like any hackney jade? My love, I showed that ancient toad my two feet--and I vow toad is a good name for her, for she hath the countenance and the croak of her own pet frogs--I showed her my feet, and I lamented my stones of weight. ’Pon rep! I gave myself sixteen, I did indeed, and what with the swelling, I looked ’em! ‘Let me confide in you,’ I cries, ‘if ever I saw a truly noble soul writ on a human brow, ’tis on yours! My frame,’ I cries, ‘is not equal to my devotion. My ankles will not support the loyalty of my heart! ’tis not that I should grudge passing away in such service,’ I cries, turning up my eyes--You could not have done it better, Kitty!--‘but were I to faint in those sacred precincts, were I to pass away in that august Presence, Her Majesty would be justly annoyed. Dr. Jebb has warned me. Alas! look at me. Am I not fat?’ ‘Vat you are,’ says she, ‘but so am I.’ Well, then, my love, I gave her a peep of the lace, and she began to dribble at the corners of her mouth, and I knew the trick was done! ‘If I speak to Her Majesty,’ says she, and she fingering my rose-point, ‘I vonder vot substitute I could suggest. Her Majesty she does not like the changes, and----’ And then, I thought of you, Kitty.” “I wonder why, in the name of Heaven!” cried this lady tartly. “Your feet won’t swell, my love.” “I need not accept,” quoth Kitty, pinching her lips. “Kitty, if you play your cards well, the post will be offered to you while their Majesties are here at Cheltenham. ’Tis all settled with the Schwellenberg. Do you not know,” said Lady Florence, pushing the dish with a single remaining macaroon upon it, virtuously from her, “that Susan Verney is making all the interest in the world for the honour? But she was rude to the Schwellenberg one day--you know poor Susan’s way!--when they met in my drawing-room at Queen’s Lodge, and the Schwellenberg will have none of her!” “Say no more!” cried Kitty, and fires shot from her eyes. “My love, I believe I have served you,” said Lady Florence, replying to the eloquence of that glance. “‘My royals are not bartial to the Irish,’ said Schwellenberg. ‘Ah, but Madam,’ I says. ‘My Lady Kilcroney is not Irish. She is true-born English, and has vast wealth--widow of an Indian Nabob--vast wealth and a generous heart!--And you admire the lace, Madam?’ says I, ‘in the very truth I was hoping I might venture to offer it to you, for ’tis lace that should be worn at court, Madam, and in no other place--and as I mentioned to you, my Lady Kilcroney and her Lord have practically severed all ties with Ireland. If you would accept the flounce, Madam, on my retirement (I think there is a narrow edging of rose-point to match).’ ‘I will tink of what you say about my Lady Kilcroney,’ croaks she. Am I not a good friend, Kitty?”