My Lady Viscountess’s face was daubed with white and red up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly glare:  she had a tower of lace on her head, under which was a bush of black curls—­borrowed curls—­so that no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first presented to her—­the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn introduction—­and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as her own, as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen, when the players came down to Ealing Fair.  She sat in a great chair by the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously; on a little table by her was her ladyship’s snuff-box and her sugar-plum box.  She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-colored brocade.  She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman of Banbury Cross; and pretty small feet which she was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white pantofles with red heels; and an odor of musk was shook out of her garments whenever she moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, little Fury barking at her heels.

Mrs. Tusher, the parson’s wife, was with my lady.  She had been waiting-woman to her ladyship in the late lord’s time, and, having her soul in that business, took naturally to it when the Viscountess of Castlewood returned to inhabit her father’s house.

“I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honor, Master Henry Esmond,” Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical humility.  “Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then another little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher—­the fair priestess of Castlewood.”

“Where I have lived and hope to die, sir,” says Madame Tusher, giving a hard glance at the brat, and then at my lady.

Upon her the boy’s whole attention was for a time directed.  He could not keep his great eyes off from her.  Since the Empress of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful.

“Does my appearance please you, little page?” asked the lady.

“He would be very hard to please if it didn’t,” cried Madame Tusher.

“Have done, you silly Maria,” said Lady Castlewood.

“Where I’m attached, I’m attached, Madame—­and I’d die rather than not say so.”

“Je meurs ou je m’attache,” Mr. Holt said with a polite grin.  “The ivy says so in the picture, and clings to the oak like a fond parasite as it is.”

“Parricide, sir!” cries Mrs. Tusher.

“Hush, Tusher—­you are always bickering with Father Holt,” cried my lady.  “Come and kiss my hand, child;” and the oak held out a branch to little Harry Esmond, who took and dutifully kissed the lean old hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred rings.

“To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!” cried Mrs. Tusher:  on which my lady crying out, “Go, you foolish Tusher!” and tapping her with her great fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it.  Fury arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt looked on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances.