to bring your slippers and cap, and to sit at your feet, and cry, ’O caro!  O bravo!’ whilst you read your Shakespeares and Miltons and stuff.  Mamma would have been the wife for you, had you been a little older, though you look ten years older than she does—­you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded little old man!  You might have sat, like Darby and Joan, and flattered each other; and billed and cooed like a pair of old pigeons on a perch.  I want my wings and to use them, sir.”  And she spread out her beautiful arms, as if indeed she could fly off like the pretty “Gawrie,” whom the man in the story was enamored of.

“And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight?” says Esmond, who never admired this fair creature more than when she rebelled and laughed at him.

“A duchess knows her place,” says she, with a laugh.  “Why, I have a son already made for me, and thirty years old (my Lord Arran), and four daughters.  How they will scold, and what a rage they will be in, when I come to take the head of the table!  But I give them only a month to be angry; at the end of that time they shall love me every one, and so shall Lord Arran, and so shall all his Grace’s Scots vassals and followers in the Highlands.  I’m bent on it; and when I take a thing in my head, ’tis done.  His Grace is the greatest gentleman in Europe, and I’ll try and make him happy; and, when the King comes back, you may count on my protection, Cousin Esmond—­for come back the King will and shall; and I’ll bring him back from Versailles, if he comes under my hoop.”

“I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix,” says Esmond, with a sigh.  “You’ll be Beatrix till you are my Lady Duchess—­will you not?  I shall then make your Grace my very lowest bow.”

“None of these sighs and this satire, cousin,” she says.  “I take his Grace’s great bounty thankfully—­yes, thankfully; and will wear his honors becomingly.  I do not say he hath touched my heart; but he has my gratitude, obedience, admiration—­I have told him that, and no more; and with that his noble heart is content.  I have told him all—­even the story of that poor creature that I was engaged to—­and that I could not love; and I gladly gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to get back my own.  I am twenty-five years old.”

“Twenty-six, my dear,” says Esmond.

“Twenty-five, sir—­I choose to be twenty-five; and in eight years no man hath ever touched my heart.  Yes—­you did once, for a little, Harry, when you came back after Lille, and engaging with that murderer Mohun, and saving Frank’s life.  I thought I could like you; and mamma begged me hard, on her knees, and I did—­for a day.  But the old chill came over me, Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was glad when you went away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, that I might hear no more of you, that’s the truth.  You are too good for me, somehow.  I could not make you happy, and should break my heart