net
which she was about to wear. She vowed she would wear it at King James the
Third's coronation, and never a princess in the land would have become
ermine better. Esmond found the antechamber crowded with milliners and
toyshop women, obsequious goldsmiths with jewels, salvers, and tankards;
and mercer's men with hangings, and velvets, and brocades. My lady duchess
elect was giving audience to one famous silversmith from Exeter "Change,"
who brought with him a great chased salver, of which he was pointing out
the beauties as Colonel Esmond entered. "Come," says she, "cousin, and
admire the taste of this pretty thing." I think Mars and Venus were lying
in the golden bower, that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god's
casque--another his sword--another his great buckler, upon which my Lord
Duke Hamilton's arms with ours were to be engraved--and a fourth was
kneeling down to the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet in his
hands, God help us! The next time Mr. Esmond saw that piece of plate, the
arms were changed, the ducal coronet had been replaced by a viscount's; it
formed part of the fortune of the thrifty goldsmith's own daughter, when
she married my Lord Viscount Squanderfield two years after.

"Isn't this a beautiful piece?" says Beatrix, examining it, and she
pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine carving of the
languid prostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as he thought of the warrior dead
in his chamber, his servants and children weeping around him; and of this
smiling creature attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial death-bed.
"'Tis a pretty piece of vanity," says he, looking gloomily at the
beautiful creature: there were flambeaux in the room lighting up the
brilliant mistress of it. She lifted up the great gold salver with her
fair arms.

"Vanity!" says she haughtily. "What is vanity in you, sir, is propriety in
me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. Graves; but have it I will, if only
to spite Mr. Esmond."

"O Beatrix, lay it down!" says Mr. Esmond. "Herodias! you know not what
you carry in the charger."

She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running to seize his
fallen ware. The lady's face caught the fright from Esmond's pale
countenance, and her eyes shone out like beacons of alarm:--"What is it,
Henry?" says she, running to him, and seizing both his hands. "What do you
mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?"

"Come away, come away!" says Esmond, leading her: she cl