“I bespeak yours, Mr. Pope!” says she. “Your pen won’t desert me, and ’tis more powerful than any sword or Act of Parliament. ’Tis so known to be employed always on the side of virtue and weakness that when it defends my lovers (should defence be needed) detraction itself will run to cover. Have I your protection?” The word delighted the Wasp of Twick’nam. He bowed in the Versailles manner. “Your Grace needs no assurance. The town will buzz with this tomorrow, but I’m ready, and ’twill be a delight to see what can be said in defence of a position that cannot be defended on any pretence whatever.” “No more it can! But it will,” agrees the Duchess, dismissing him charmingly. When all were gone she turned to my Lady Fanny, the sole survivor. “’Tis done, my dear, and I know not whether I have damned them or myself. But I’ll never do it again. No, not even for my Fanny. Therefore be circumspect.” “You’re a brave woman. I never admired you more!” cries Lady Fanny. “I could not myself have done it. But you have secured them from much grief, and if you’ve opened the way to more, ’tis not for any one to blame you. Come up and let us tell Diana what hath past.” They did so, and she kissed that generous hand with love and gratitude, and trembling hope. CHAPTER XX THE town rang and buzzed to some purpose next day and the wits were busy indeed. ’Twas an opportunity to be clever they could by no means miss and some of the lampoons might have been writ by the Yahoos themselves had they turned their talents that way. But the Duchess’s party was not silent neither. Dr. Swift took pen in hand and writ a paper that assailed the lampooners with a virulence not inferior to their own and a wit so far superior as left them gasping. This heavy artillery was followed by Mr. Pope’s light skirmishing tactics, which harassed and annoyed the enemy beyond bearing and strewed the field of battle with moribund and slaughtered reputations. Had the two gentlemen been so minded they might have adorned their wigwams with more scalps than any Indian brave, and indeed their war-whoops were terrific. In a while they penetrated even the chaste precincts of Kensington Palace where her Majesty followed the attack and defence with most searching interest in hopes to find the Duchess of Queensbury among the slain, and had instead the mortification to see her enthroned sublime on the piled fragments of her enemies. ’Twas only the Queen’s high gust of humour, that laughed at all wit no matter the source, which softened the blow. “That woman has the good fortune of her father the devil,” says she to Mrs. Howard at the toilette—the chaplain at his prayers without her door. “Had I undertook to protect a common little wanton like Polly, Swift’s bludgeon had been on my head and Pope’s rapier through my heart ere I could cry for mercy. ’Tis as much as I can do to make our Kensington amours pass muster.”