“No,” says Radisson, “but here are unpaid tailor bills!  ’Tis as good as your billets-doux!  I’ll kiss ’em just as hard!”

“So!” cries Lady Kirke, bobbing a courtesy and blowing a kiss from her finger-tips as we rolled away in Sir John’s coach.

“The old flirt-o’-tail,” blurted Radisson, “you could pack her brains in a hazel-nut; but ’twould turn the stomach of a grub!”

* * * * * *

’Twas not the Whitehall you know to-day, which is but a remnant of the grand old pile that stretched all the way from the river front to the inner park.  Before the fires, Whitehall was a city of palaces reaching far into St. James, with a fleet of royal barges at float below the river stairs.  From Scotland Yard to Bridge Street the royal ensign blew to the wind above tower and parapet and battlement.  I mind under the archway that spanned little Whitehall Street M. Radisson dismissed our coachman.

“How shall we bring up the matter of Hortense?” I asked.

“Trust me,” said Radisson.  “The gods of chance!”

“Will you petition the king direct?”

“Egad—­no!  Never petition a selfish man direct, or you’ll get a No!  Bring him round to the generous, so that he may take all credit for it himself!  Do you hold back among the on-lookers till I’ve told our story o’ the north!  ’Tis not a state occasion!  Egad, there’ll be court wenches aplenty ready to take up with a likely looking man!  Have a word with Hortense if you can!  Let me but get the king’s ear—­” And Radisson laughed with a confidence, methought, nothing on earth could shake.

Then we were passed from the sentinel doing duty at the gate to the king’s guards, and from the guards to orderlies, and from orderlies to fellows in royal colours, who led us from an ante-room to that glorious gallery of art where it pleased the king to take his pleasure that night.

It was not a state occasion, as Radisson said; but for a moment I think the glitter in which those jaded voluptuaries burned out their moth-lives blinded even the clear vision of Pierre Radisson.  The great gallery was thronged with graceful courtiers and stately dowagers and gaily attired page-boys and fair ladies with a beauty of youth on their features and the satiety of age in their look.  My Lord Preston, I mind, was costumed in purple velvet with trimming of pearls such as a girl might wear.  Young Blood moved from group to group to show his white velvets sparkling with diamonds.  One of the Sidneys was there playing at hazard with my Lady Castlemaine for a monstrous pile of gold on the table, which some onlookers whispered made up three thousand guineas.  As I watched my lady lost; but in spite of that, she coiled her bare arm around the gold as if to hold the winnings back.

“And indeed,” I heard her say, with a pout, “I’ve a mind to prove your love!  I’ve a mind not to pay!”