“Lord Baltimore?” cries Lady Fanny, repelling with her gay laughter the piercing glance of her elder. “Why that’s nothing to the purpose. He goes there because Bolton goes, and Bolton goes to tell his woes to the Duchess, and ’tis incredible that a mere player is admitted to sit with her Grace. My woman has it from the Duchess’s woman that the girl is but given bed and board and sees no company whatever. You may trust her Grace’s dignity. No, no—my Lady Mary. He may pursue her at the playhouse, but she has a potent rival. His own self-love.” “Why ’tis that sends him after her. Polly is so much the mode that to win her would be the last finish and polish to his Lordship’s success. He disdains all his former charmers.” Lady Fanny resolved on bold action—so piercing, so malicious was the eye that held her. “Indeed that’s very true, Madam, and who should know it better than your most obedient. I think ’twas for two months or more the Basilisk favoured me with such attention that had I been an ounce vainer I had thought myself the chosen American Princess. But, Lord! I knew him too well. I did but wait my retirement in favour of a more beauteous pretender, and here she comes in the adorable Polly! She’s welcome, for me!” It baffled the lady, who drew back to wait for the next opportunity to sting. The rest laughed good-humouredly. “Depend on’t we hear of a great scandal one of these days!” says the pretty bouncing Mrs. Tate.— “The Basilisk never wanted anything that he did not take sooner or later. For my part, I pity the girl unless she favours his suit. Not even the Duchess can protect her. As to the friendship between him and the Duke of Bolton ’tis well known it’s wearing as thin as gossamer. They are little together now. But shall we to our commerce again, Lady Fanny?” A part of the company took to their cards while those fair Philomels, Mrs. Donnellan together with Mrs. Fane, favoured the rest with a song to my Lady Fanny’s harpsichord from “The Beggar’s Opera” that indeed was not inappropriate to this charming talkative society. ’Twas the dialogue song between Lucy and Polly they sung. Why, how now, Madam Flirt? If you thus must chatter And are for flinging dirt, Let’s see who best can spatter, Madam Flirt! Why, how now, saucy jade? Sure the wench is tipsy! How can you see me made The scoff of such a gipsy? Saucy jade! Mrs. Slammikin, Mrs. Coaxer and their friends could not have applauded louder than that merry party.