’Twas years later that Sir Peter Lely painted Lady Sue when she was a great lady and the friend of the Queen:  she was beautiful then, in the full splendor of her maturer charms, but never so beautiful as she was on that hot July afternoon in the year of our Lord 1657, when, heated with the ardor of the game, pleased undoubtedly with the adulation which surrounded her on every side, she laughed and chatted with the men, teased the women, her cheeks aglow, her eyes bright, her brown hair—­persistently unruly—­flying in thick curls over her neck and shoulders.

“A remarkable talent, good Sir Marmaduke,” Dame Harrison was saying to her host, as she cast a complacent eye on her nephew, who had just succeeded in overthrowing three nine-pins at one stroke:  “Sir Timothy hath every aptitude for outdoor pursuits, and though my Lord Protector deems all such recreations sinful, yet do I think they tend to the development of muscular energy, which later on may be placed at the service of the Commonwealth.”

Sir Timothy Harrison at this juncture had the misfortune of expending his muscular energy in hitting Squire Boatfield violently on the shin with an ill-aimed ball.

“Damn!” ejaculated the latter, heedless of the strict fines imposed by my Lord Protector on unseemly language.  “I ... verily beg the ladies’ pardon ... but ... this young jackanapes nearly broke my shin-bone.”

There certainly had been an exclamation of horror on the part of the ladies at Squire Boatfield’s forcible expression of annoyance, Dame Harrison taking no pains to conceal her disapproval.

“Horrid, coarse creature, this neighbor of yours, good Sir Marmaduke,” she said with her usual air of decision.  “Meseems he is not fit company for your ward.”

“Dear Squire Boatfield,” sighed Mistress Pyncheon, who was evidently disposed to be more lenient, “how good-humoredly he bears it!  Clumsy people should not be trusted in a skittle alley,” she added in a mild way, which seemed to be peculiarly exasperating to Dame Harrison’s irascible temper.

“I pray you, Sir Timothy,” here interposed Lady Sue, trying to repress the laughter which would rise to her lips, “forgive poor Squire John.  You scarce can expect him to moderate his language under such provocation.”

“Oh! his insults leave me completely indifferent,” said the young man with easy unconcern, “his calling me a jackanapes doth not of necessity make me one.”

“No!” retorted Squire Boatfield, who was still nursing his shin-bone, “maybe not, Sir Timothy, but it shows how observant I am.”

“Oliver, pick up Lady Sue’s handkerchief,” came in mild accents from Mistress Pyncheon.

“Quite unnecessary, good mistress,” rejoined Dame Harrison decisively, “Sir Timothy has already seen it.”