nded from their
horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, to rooms on a level with the
ground, one of which Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, the
other on the other side of the passage being the Father's own. As soon
as the little man's face was washed, and the Father's own dress arranged,
Harry's guide took him once more to the door by which my lord had entered
the hall, and up a stair, and through an ante-room to my lady's
drawing-room--an apartment than which Harry thought he had never seen
anything more grand--no, not in the Tower of London, which he had just
visited. Indeed, the chamber was richly ornamented in the manner of Queen
Elizabeth's time, with great stained windows at either end, and hangings
of tapestry, which the sun shining through the coloured glass painted of
a thousand hues; and here in state, by the fire, sat a lady to whom the
priest took up Harry, who was indeed amazed by her appearance.

My Lady Viscountess's face was daubed with white and red up to the eyes,
to which the paint gave an unearthly glare. She had a tower of lace on
her head, under which was a bush of black curls--borrowed curls--so that
no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first presented to
her, the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn
introduction, and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as her own,
as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen,
when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in a great chair by
the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously; on
a little table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum
box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-coloured
brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman of
Banbury Cross; and pretty, small feet which she was fond of showing,
with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white slippers with red
heels; and an odour of musk was shaken out of her garments whenever she
moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, little
Fury, the dog, barking at her heels, and Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife,
by her side.

"I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honour,
Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical
humility. "Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then another
little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher."

Upon my lady the boy's whole attention was