with the story. She bade her father
invite his rapscallion crew to her birthnight supper, and says 'tis
that they may see her in breeches for the last time, for she will wear
them no more, but begin to live a sober, godly, and virtuous life and
keep a Chaplain of her own. And on the twenty-fourth night of November,
she turning fifteen, they gather prepared for sport, and find her
attired like a young prince, in pink satin coat and lace ruffles and
diamond buckles and powder; more impudent and handsome than since she
was born. And when the drinking sets in heavily, upon her chair she
springs and stands laughing at the company of them.

"'Look your last on my fine shape,' she cries, 'for after to-night
you'll see no more of it. From this I am a fine lady,' and sings a song
and drinks a toast and breaks her glass on the floor and runs away."

At a certain period of my Lord Twemlow's first story, the night he told
it, both his Lordship of Dunstanwolde and the then Marquess of Roxholm
had made unconscious movements as they heard--this had happened when
had been described the falling of the mantle of black hair and the
little oaths with which Mistress Clorinda had sat on her hunter binding
it up--and at this point--at this other picture of the audacious beauty
and her broken glass each man almost started again--my Lord
Dunstanwolde indeed suddenly rising and taking a step across the
hearth.

"What a story," he said. "On my soul!"

"And 'tis not the end!" cried Lord Twemlow. "An hour she leaves them
talking of her, wondering what she plans to do, and then the door is
flung wide open and there she stands--splendid in crimson and silver
and jewels, with a diadem on her head, and servants holding lights
flaming above her."

My Lord Dunstanwolde turned about and looked at him as if the movement
was involuntary, and Lord Twemlow ended with a blow upon the table, his
elderly face aflame with appreciation of the dramatic thing he told.

"And makes them a great Court courtesy," he cried, his voice growing
almost shrill, "and calls on them all to fall upon their knees, by God!
'for so,' she says, 'from this night all men shall kneel--all men on
whom I deign to cast my eyes.'"

His Grace the Duke of Osmonde had listened silently, and throughout
with an impenetrable face, but at this moment he put up his hand and
slightly swept his brow with his fingers, as if he felt it damp.

"And now what does it mean?" my Lord Twemlow aske