“’Welcome, my son!  Here lay him down, my friends,
      Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure
      The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds.’”

A smile irradiated Mistress Stagg’s faded countenance, and she blew a kiss toward the open window.  “He does Cato so extremely well; and it’s a grave, dull, odd character, too.  But Mirabell—­that’s Charles, you know—­manages to put a little life in it, a Je ne sais quoi, a touch of Sir Harry Wildair.  Now—­now he’s pulling out his laced handkerchief to weep over Rome!  You should see him after he has fallen on his sword, and is brought on in a chair, all over blood.  This is the third rehearsal; the play’s ordered for Monday night.  Who is it, Peggy?  Madam Travis!  It’s about the lace for her damask petticoat, and there’s no telling how long she may keep me!  My dear Deborah, when you have finished your wine, Peggy shall show you your room.  You must make yourself quite at home.  For says I to Mirabell this morning, ’Far be it from me to forget past kindnesses, and in those old Bath days Deborah was a good friend to me,—­which was no wonder, to be sure, seeing that when we were little girls we went to the same dame school, and always learned our book and worked our samplers together.’  And says Mirabell—­Yes, yes, ma’am, I’m coming!”

She disappeared, and the black girl showed the two guests through the hall and up a tiny stairway into a little dormer-windowed, whitewashed room.  Mistress Deborah, who still wore remnants of my Lady Squander’s ancient gifts of spoiled finery, had likewise failed to discard the second-hand fine-lady airs acquired during her service.  She now declared herself excessively tired by her morning ride, and martyr, besides, to a migraine.  Moreover, it was enough to give one the spleen to hear Mary Stagg’s magpie chatter and to see how some folk throve, willy-nilly, while others just as good—­Here tears of vexation ensued, and she must lie down upon the bed and call in a feeble voice for her smelling salts.  Audrey hurriedly searched in the ragged portmanteau brought to town the day before in the ox-cart of an obliging parishioner, found the flask, and took it to the bedside, to receive in exchange a sound box of the ear for her tardiness.  The blow reddened her cheek, but brought no tears to her eyes.  It was too small a thing to weep for; tears were for blows upon the heart.

It was a cool and quiet little room, and Mistress Deborah, who had drunk two full glasses of the Madeira, presently fell asleep.  Audrey sat very still, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes upon them, until their hostess’s voice announced from the foot of the stairs that Madam Travis had taken her departure.  She then slipped from the room, and was affably received below, and taken into the apartment which they had first entered.  Here Mistress became at once extremely busy.  A fan was to be mounted; yards of silk gathered into furbelows; breast knots, shoulder knots, sword knots, to be made up.  Her customers were all people of quality, and unless she did her part not one of them could go to the ball.  Audrey shyly proffered her aid, and was set to changing the ribbons upon a mask.