So Dorothy’s beauty had taken London by storm, even as it had conquered Annapolis!  However, ’twas small consolation to me to hear his Grace of Chartersea called a pig and a profligate while better men danced her attendance in Mayfair.  Nor, in spite of what his Lordship had said, was I quite easy on the score of the duke.  It was in truth no small honour to become a duchess.  If Mr. Marmaduke had aught to say, there was an end to hope.  She would have her coronet.  But in that hour of darkness I counted upon my lady’s spirit.

Dr. Courtenay came to the assembly very late, with a new fashion of pinchbeck buckles on his pumps and a new manner of taking snuff.  (I caught Fotheringay practising this by the stairs shortly after.) Always an important man, the doctor’s prominence had been increased that day by the letter he had received.  He was too thorough a courtier to profess any grief over Miss Manners’s match, and went about avowing that he had always predicted a duke for Miss Dorothy.  And he drew a deal of pleasure from the curiosity of those who begged but one look at the letter.  Show it, indeed!  For no consideration.  A private communication from one gentleman to another must be respected.  Will Fotheringay swore the doctor was a sly dog, and had his own reasons for keeping it to himself.

The doctor paid his compliment to the captain of the Thunderer, and to his Lordship; hoped that he would see them at the meet on the morrow, tho’ his gout forbade his riding to hounds.  He saluted me in the most friendly way, for I played billiards with him at the Coffee House now, and he won my money.  He had pronounced my phaeton to be as well appointed as any equipage in town, and had done me the honour to drive out with me on several occasions.  It was Betty that brought him humiliation that evening.

“What do you think of the soar our Pandora hath taken, Miss Betty?” says he.  “From a Maryland manor to a ducal palace.  ’Tis a fable, egad!  No less!”

“Indeed, I think it is,” retorted Betty.  “Mark me, doctor, Dorothy will not put up an instant with a roue and a brute.”

“A roue!” cries he, “and a brute!  What the plague, Miss Tayloe!  I vow I do not understand you.”

“Then ask my Lord Comyn, who knows your Duke of Chartersea,” said Betty.

Dr. Courtenay’s expression was worth a pistole.

“Comyn know him!” he repeated.

“That he does,” replied Betty, laughing.  “His Lordship says Chartersea is a pig and a profligate, and I remember not what else.  And that Dolly will not look at him.  And so little Mr. Marmaduke may go a-hunting for another title.”

No wonder I had little desire for dancing that night!  I wandered out of the assembly-room and through the silent corridors of the Stadt House, turning over and over again what I had heard, and picturing Dorothy reigning over the macaronies of St. James’s Street.  She had said nothing of this in her letter to Betty, and had asked me to write to her.  But now, with a duke to refuse or accept, could she care to hear from her old playmate?  I took no thought of the time, until suddenly my conscience told me I had neglected Patty.