“They say, too,” cried Bob Langton, “that she makes them all behave themselves, telling them that unless their manners are decent they cannot follow her to the fine houses she is bid to—­and she puts them through a drill and cuts off their drink and their cursings and wicked stories.  And Gloucestershire and Warwickshire and Worcestershire are all agog with it!”

“And they follow her like slaves,” added Tantillion, in an ecstacy, “and stand about with their mouths open to stare at her swimming though her minuets with bowing worshippers, and oh!  Roxholm—­nay, I should say Osmonde; but how can a man remember you are Duke instead of Marquis?—­’tis told that in the field in her woman’s hat and hunting-coat she is handsomer than ever.  Even my Lord Dunstanwolde has rode to the meet to behold her, and admires her as far as a sober elderly gentleman can.”

That my Lord Dunstanwolde admired her, Osmonde knew.  His rare letters told a grave and dignified gentleman’s version of the story and spoke of it with kindly courtesy and pleasure in it.  It had proved that the change which had come over her had been the result of no caprice or mischievous spirit but of a reasonable intention, to which she had been faithful with such consistency of behaviour as filled the gossips and onlookers with amazement.

“’Tis my belief,” said the kindly nobleman, “that being in truth a noble creature, though bred so wildly, the time came when she realised herself a woman, and both wit and heart told her that ’twas more honourable to live a woman’s life and not a madcap boy’s.  And her intellect being of such vigour and fineness, she can execute what her thought conceives.”

Among the gentlemen who were her courtiers there was much talk of the fashionable rake Sir John Oxon, who, having appeared at her birthnight supper, had become madly enamoured of her, and had stayed in the country at Eldershawe Park and laid siege to her with all his forces and with much fervour of feeling besides.  ’Twas a thing well known that this successful rake had never lost his heart to a woman in his life before, and that his victims had all been snared by a part played to villanous perfection; but ’twas plain enough that at last he had met a woman who had set that which he called his soul on fire.  He could not tear himself away from the country, though the gayeties of the town were at their highest.  When in her presence his burning blue eyes followed her every movement, and when she treated him disdainfully he turned pale.

“But she leaves him no room for boasting,” related young Tantillion.  “He may worship as any man may, but she shows no mercy to any, and him she treats with open scorn when he languishes.  He grows thin and pale and is half-crazed with his passion for her.”