“You men always lose your wits when you see her,” she would say. “’Tis said Sir John Oxon”—­with a malicious little glance at that gentleman, who stood near her ladyship across the room—­“’tis said Sir John Oxon lost more, and broke a fine match, and squandered his fortune, and sank into the evilest reputation—­all for love of her.”

She turned to his Grace of Osmonde, who was near, waving her fan languishing.  “Has your Grace heard that story?” she asked.  His Grace approached smiling—­he never could converse with this young lady without smiling a little—­she so bore out all the promise of her school-girl letters and reminded him of the night when he had found her brother, Ensign Tom, and Bob Langley grinning and shouting over her homilies on the Gloucestershire beauty.

“Which one is it?” he said.  “Your ladyship has been kind enough to tell me so many.”

“’Tis the one about Sir John Oxon and her ladyship of Dunstanwolde,” she answered, with a pretty simper.  “All Gloucestershire knew how they were in love with each other when she was Mistress Wildairs—­until she cast him off for my Lord Dunstanwolde.  ’Tis said she drove him to ruin—­but now he has come back to her, and all think she will remember her first love and yield to him at last.  And surely it would be a pretty romance.”

“Jack Oxon was not drove to ruin by her ladyship,” cried Sir Chris; “not he.  But deep in love with her he was, ’tis sure, and had she been any other woman she must have been melted by him.  Ecod!” looking across the room at the two, with a reflective air, “I wonder if she was!”

“But look at his eyes now,” said my Lady Betty, giving a side glance at his Grace.  “They glow like fire, and wheresoever she moves he keeps them glued on her.”

“She doth not keep hers glued on him,” said Sir Chris, “but looks away and holds her head up as if she would not see him.”

“That is her way to draw him to her,” cried Lady Betty.  “It drives a man wild with love to be so treated—­and she is a shrewd beauty; but when he can get near enough he stands and speaks into her ear—­low, that none may listen.  I have seen him do it more than once, and she pretends not to hearken, but hears it all, and murmurs back, no doubt, while she seems to gaze straight before her, and waves her fan.  I heard him speak once when he did not think me close to him, and he said, ‘Have you forgot—­have you forgot, Clorinda?’ and she answered then, but her words I did not hear.”  She waved her painted fan with a coquettish flourish. “’Tis not a new way of making love,” she said with arch knowingness.  “It hath been done before.”

“He hath drawn near and is speaking to her now,” said Sir Chris, staring wonderingly, “but I swear it does not look like love-making.  He looks like a man who threatens.”

“He threatens he will fall on his sword if she will not yield,” laughed Lady Betty.  “They all swear the same thing.”