‘Well, yes, madam,’ admitted William Henry; he could not help thinking how charming she would look as the page, Flavia. ‘Don’t be ashamed of it, young gentleman,’ said Mrs. Jordan gravely. ‘It is to your credit, remember, if not to hers,’ interpolated Mrs. Powell ambiguously. ‘And does this pretty creature live in the house?’ continued Mrs. Jordan with tender interest. ‘Yes, madam; she is my cousin, Margaret Slade.’ ‘How nice! I never had a cousin when I was so young as that. How I envy her!’ ‘“This shall to the Duke,”’ quoted Mrs. Powell menacingly. Then they both laughed again. William Henry was dazzled, delighted, and a little uncomfortable. ‘We must not take up his time,’ said Mrs. Jordan rising and consulting her watch. ‘Now that we know that he is so very much _engaged_,’ assented Mrs. Powell slily. ‘But you have not told me your business ladies,’ observed William Henry naïvely. Then they both laughed again, as they well might, for the truth was that, having something so very much more pleasant in hand, they had forgotten all about it; they were not bees, but butterflies. ‘The fact is—only your company is so delightful it put our business out of our heads—we want to go over the play with you.’ ‘There is but one copy in the house, ladies, in yonder safe, and I am sorry to say my father has the key.’ ‘Then you must bring it to the theatre to-morrow morning, sir,’ said Mrs. Powell imperiously. William Henry shook his head. ‘That is the original Shakespeare MS., madam; I could not venture on such a step.’ ‘What ridiculous scruples!’ cried Mrs. Powell impatiently, beating her pretty foot upon the floor. ‘But we can use the acting copy,’ suggested Mrs. Jordan, ‘and—if this young gentleman will be so good as to come himself.’ Anything sweeter or more seductive than her tone it was impossible to imagine; even the very pause and break in the sentence had literally an unspeakable charm. ‘I will come with the greatest pleasure,’ said William Henry. There was indeed no reason why he should not do so, but if there had been it would have been all the same. He was fascinated. ‘To-morrow, then, at eleven o’clock,’ she said, and held out her hand; he pressed it, and she returned the pressure, but with mirthful eyes. Mrs. Powell shook hands with him too, and shook her head as she did so. ‘Poor young man!’ she said; ‘poor Margaret!’ Then they both laughed again: they laughed in the parlour, they laughed in the passage, they laughed on the very doorstep. As Margaret said of them after their departure, somewhat severely, ‘They seemed to be a pair of very frivolous young women.’ CHAPTER XXVII. A ROYAL PATRON.