‘My chains, I fear, are neither very alluring nor very strong.’ She spoke with a thoughtful air, and he answered her only with his eye.
‘I must bear off something from your stall,’ he resumed in a more rapid and gayer tone, ‘and, as I cannot purchase you must present. Now for a gift!’
‘Your Grace is really spoiling my sale. See! poor Lord Bagshot. What a valuable purchaser.’
‘Ah! Bag, my boy!’ said the Duke to a slang young nobleman whom he abhorred, but of whom he sometimes made a butt, ‘am I in your way? Here! take this, and this, and this, and give me your purse. I’ll pay Lady Aphrodite.’ And so the Duke again showered some sovereigns, and returned the shrunken silk to its defrauded owner, who stared, and would have remonstrated, but the Duke turned his back upon him.
‘There now,’ he continued to Lady Aphrodite; ‘there is two hundred per cent, profit for you. You are not half a _marchande_. I will stand here and be your shopman. Well, Annesley,’ said he, as that dignitary passed, ‘what will you buy? I advise you to get a place. ‘Pon my soul, ‘tis pleasant! Try Lady de Courcy. You know you are a favourite.’
‘I assure your Grace,’ said Mr. Annesley, speaking slowly, ‘that that story about Lady de Courcy is quite untrue and very rude. I never turn my back on any woman; only my heel. We are on the best possible terms. She is never to speak to me, and I am always to bow to her. But I really must purchase. Where did you get that glass-chain, St. James? Lady Afy, can you accommodate me?’
‘Here is one prettier! But are you near-sighted, too, Mr. Annesley?’
‘Very. I look upon a long-sighted man as a brute who, not being able to see with his mind, is obliged to see with his body. The price of this?’
‘A sovereign,’ said the Duke; ‘cheap; but we consider you as a friend.’
‘A sovereign! You consider me a young Duke rather. Two shillings, and that a severe price; a charitable price. Here is half-a-crown; give me sixpence. I was not a minor. Farewell! I go to the little Pomfret. She is a sweet flower, and I intend to wear her in my button-hole. Good-bye, Lady Afy!’
The gay morning had worn away, and St. James never left his fascinating position. Many a sweet and many a soft thing he uttered. Sometimes he was baffled, but never beaten, and always returned to the charge with spirit. He was confident, because he was reckless: the lady had less trust in herself, because she was anxious. Yet she combated well, and repressed the feelings which she could hardly conceal.