“My Lord,” she cries, “I will show you our colonial reel, which is about to begin, and I warrant you is gayer than any dance you have at home.”

“Your very devoted, Mrs. Carvel,” says his Lordship, with a bow, “but Miss Swain has done me the honour.”

“O Lud!” cries my aunt, sweeping the room, “I vow I cannot keep pace with the misses nowadays.  Is she here?”

“She was but a moment since, ma’am,” replied Comyn, instantly, with a mischievous look at me, while poor Patty stood blushing not a yard distant.

There were many who overheard, and who used their fans and their napkins to hide their laughter at the very just snub Mrs. Grafton had received.  And I wondered at the readiness with which he had read her character, liking him all the better.  But my aunt was not to be disabled by this, —­not she.  After the dance she got hold of him, keeping him until certain designing ladies with daughters took him away; their names charity forbids me to mention.  But in spite of them all he contrived to get Patty for supper, when I took Betty Tayloe, and we were very merry at table together.  His Lordship proved more than able to take care of himself, and contrived to send Philip about his business when he pulled up a chair beside us.  He drank a health to Miss Swain, and another to Miss Tayloe, and was on the point of filling a third glass to the ladies of Maryland, when he caught himself and brought his hand down on the table.

“Gad’s life!” cried he, “but I think she’s from Maryland, too!”

“Who?” demanded the young ladies, in a breath.

But I knew.

“Who!” exclaimed Comyn.  “Who but Miss Dorothy Manners!  Isn’t she from Maryland?” And marking our astonished nods, he continued:  “Why, she descended upon Mayfair when they were so weary for something to worship, and they went mad over her in a s’ennight.  I give you Miss Manners!”

“And you know her!” exclaimed Patty, her voice quivering with excitement.

“Faith!” said his Lordship, laughing.  “For a whole month I was her most devoted, as were we all at Almack’s.  I stayed until the last minute for a word with her,—­which I never got, by the way,—­and paid near a guinea a mile for a chaise to Portsmouth as a consequence.  Already she has had her choice from a thousand a year up, and I tell you our English ladies are green with envy.”

I was stunned, you may be sure.  And yet, I might have expected it.

“If your Lordship has left your heart in England,” said Betty, with a smile, “I give you warning you must not tell our ladies here of it.”

“I care not who knows it, Miss Tayloe,” he cried.  That fustian, insincerity, was certainly not one of his faults.  “I care not who knows it.  To pass her chariot is to have your heart stolen, and you must needs run after and beg mercy.  But, ladies,” he added, his eye twinkling; “having seen the women of your colony, I marvel no longer at Miss Manners’s beauty.”