One by one the gentlemen retired to exchange their spurred top-boots for white silk stockings and silken pumps, and to arrange their hair or stick a patch here and there, and rinse their hands in rose-water to cleanse them of the bridle’s odor.

They were still thronging the gun-room, and I stood alone in the drawing-room with Sir George Covert, when a lady entered and courtesied low as we bowed together.

And truly she was a beauty, with her skin of rose-ivory, her powdered hair a-gleam with brilliants, her eyes of purest violet, a friendly smile hovering on her fresh, scarlet mouth.

“Well, sir,” she said, “do you not know me?” And to Sir George:  “I vow, he takes me for a guest in my own house!”

And then I knew my cousin Dorothy Varick.

[Illustration:  “She suffered us to salute her hand".]

She suffered us to salute her hand, gazing the while about her indifferently; and, as I released her slender fingers and raised my head, she, rounded arm still extended as though forgotten, snapped her thumb and forefinger together in vexation with a “Plague on it!  There’s that odious Sir John!”

“Is Sir John Johnson so offensive to your ladyship?” inquired Sir George, lazily.

“Offensive!  Have you not heard how the beast drank wine from my slipper!  Never mind!  I cannot endure him.  Sir George, you must sit by me at table—­and you, too, Cousin Ormond, or he’ll come bothering.”  She glanced at the open door of the gun-room, a frown on her white brow.  “Oh, they’re all here, I see.  Sparks will fly ere sun-up.  There’s Campbell, and McDonald, too, wi’ the memory of Glencoe still stewing betwixt them; and there’s Guy Johnson, with a price on his head—­and plenty to sell it for him in County Tryon, gentlemen!  And there’s young Walter Butler, cursing poor Cato that he touched his spur in drawing off his boots—­if he strikes Cato I’ll strike him!  And where are their fine ladies, Sir George?  Still primping at the mirror?  Oh, la!” She stepped back, laughing, raising her lovely arms a little.  “Look at me.  Am I well laced, with nobody to aid me save Cecile, poor child, and Benny to hold the candles—­he being young enough for the office?”

“Happy, happy Benny!” murmured Sir George, inspecting her through his quizzing-glass from head to toe.

“If you think it a happy office you may fill it yourself in future, Sir George,” she said.  “I never knew an ass who failed to bray in ecstasy at mention of a pair o’ stays.”

Sir George stared, and said, “Aha! clever—­very, very clever!” in so patronizing a tone that Dorothy reddened and bit her lip in vexation.

“That is ever your way,” she said, “when I parry you to your confusion.  Take your eyes from me, Sir George!  Cousin Ormond, am I dressed to your taste or not?”

She stood there in her gown of brocade, beautifully flowered in peach color, dainty, confident, challenging me to note one fault.  Nor could I, from the gold hair-pegs in her hair to the tip of her slim, pompadour shoes peeping from the lace of her petticoat, which she lifted a trifle to show her silken, flowered hose.