. Little
Castlewood and little Lord Churchill are to be sworn friends, and have
boxed each other twice or thrice like brothers already. 'Twas that
wicked young Mohun who, coming back from the provinces last year, where
he had disinterred her, raved about her all the winter; said she was a
pearl set before swine; and killed poor stupid Frank. The quarrel was
all about his wife. I know 'twas all about her. Was there anything
between her and Mohun, nephew? Tell me now--was there anything? About
yourself, I do not ask you to answer questions."

Mr. Esmond blushed up. "My lady's virtue is like that of a saint in
heaven, madam," he cried out.

"Eh!--mon neveu. Many saints get to heaven after having a deal to repent
of. I believe you are like all the rest of the fools, and madly in love
with her."

"Indeed, I loved and honored her before all the world," Esmond answered.
"I take no shame in that."

"And she has shut her door on you--given the living to that horrid young
cub, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher, and says she will never see
you more. Monsieur mon neveu--we are all like that. When I was a young
woman, I'm positive that a thousand duels were fought about me. And when
poor Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself in the canal at Bruges because I
danced with Count Springbock, I couldn't squeeze out a single tear, but
danced till five o'clock the next morning. 'Twas the Count--no, 'twas my
Lord Ormond that played the fiddles, and his Majesty did me the honor of
dancing all night with me.--How you are grown! You have got the bel air.
You are a black man. Our Esmonds are all black. The little prude's son
is fair; so was his father--fair and stupid. You were an ugly little
wretch when you came to Castlewood--you were all eyes, like a young
crow. We intended you should be a priest. That awful Father Holt--how
he used to frighten me when I was ill! I have a comfortable director
now--the Abbe Douillette--a dear man. We make meagre on Fridays always.
My cook is a devout pious man. You, of course, are of the right way of
thinking. They say the Prince of Orange is very ill indeed."

In this way the old Dowager rattled on remorselessly to Mr. Esmond, who
was quite astounded with her present volubility, contrasting it with her
former haughty behavior to him. But she had taken him into favor for the
moment, and chose not only to like him, as far as her nature permitted,
but to be afraid of him; and he found himself to be as famili