ther, was among the first to hail his return to health and the
metropolis.

The Bird of Paradise, who, since the incident, had been several times in
hysterics, and had written various notes, of three or four lines each,
of enquiries and entreaties to join her noble friend, had been kept off
from Twickenham by the masterly tactics of Lord Squib. She, however,
would drive to the Duke's house the day after his arrival in town, and
was with him when sundry loud knocks, in quick succession, announced an
approaching levee. He locked her up in his private room, and hastened
to receive the compliments of his visitors. In the same apartment, among
many others, he had the pleasure of meeting, for the first time, Lady
Aphrodite Grafton, Lady Caroline St. Maurice, and Miss Dacre, all women
whom he had either promised, intended, or offered to marry. A curious
situation this! And really, when our hero looked upon them once
more, and viewed them, in delightful rivalry, advancing with their
congratulations, he was not surprised at the feelings with which they
had inspired him. Far, far exceeding the _bonhomie_ of Macheath, the
Duke could not resist remembering that, had it been his fortune to have
lived in the land in which his historiographer will soon be wandering;
in short, to have been a pacha instead of a peer, he might have married
all three.

A prettier fellow and three prettier women had never met since the
immortal incident of Ida.

It required the thorough breeding of Lady Afy to conceal the anxiety of
her passion; Miss Dacre's eyes showered triple sunshine, as she extended
a hand not too often offered; but Lady Caroline was a cousin, and
consanguinity, therefore, authorised as well as accounted for the warmth
of her greeting.

CHAPTER XVII.

_A Second Refusal_

A VERY few days after his return the Duke of St. James dined with Mr.
Dacre. It was the first time that he had dined with him during the
season. The Fitz-pompeys were there; and, among others, his Grace had
the pleasure of again meeting a few of his Yorkshire friends.

Once more he found himself at the right hand of Miss Dacre. All
his career, since his arrival in England, flitted across his mind.
Doncaster, dear Don-caster, where he had first seen her, teemed only
with delightful reminiscences to a man whose favourite had bolted. Such
is the magic of love! Then came Castle Dacre and the orange terrace, and
their airy romps, and the delightful part