greatest interest in life," chuckled Walpole, harking back
to Selwyn. "When George has a tooth pulled he drops his kerchief as a
signal for the dentist to begin the execution."

Old Lord Pam's toothless gums grinned appreciation of the jest as he
tottered from the room to take a chair for a rout at which he was due.

"Faith, and it's a wonder how that old Methuselah hangs on year after
year," said O'Sullivan bluntly, before the door had even closed on the
octogenarian. "He must be a thousand if he's a day."

"The fact is," explained Chesterfield confidentially, "that old Pam has
been dead for several years, but he doesn't choose to have it known.
Pardon me, am I delaying the game?"

He was not, and he knew it; but my Lord Chesterfield was far too polite to
more than hint to Topham Beauclerc that he had fallen asleep over his
throw. Selwyn and Lord March lounged into the coffee house arm in arm. On
their heels came Sir James Craven, the choicest blackleg in England.

"How d'ye do, everybody? Whom are you and O'Sully rooking to-night,
Volney? Oh, I see--Montagu. Beg pardon," said Craven coolly.

Volney looked past the man with a wooden face that did not even recognize
the fellow as a blot on the landscape. There was bad blood between the two
men, destined to end in a tragedy. Sir James had been in the high graces
of Frederick Prince of Wales until the younger and more polished Volney
had ousted him. On the part of the coarse and burly Craven, there was
enduring hatred toward his easy and elegant rival, who paid back his
malice with a serene contempt. Noted duellist as Craven was, Sir Robert
did not give a pinch of snuff for his rage.

The talk veered to the new fashion of spangled skirts, and Walpole vowed
that Lady Coventry's new dress was covered with spangles big as a
shilling.

"'Twill be convenient for Coventry. She'll be change for a guinea,"
suggested Selwyn gloomily, his solemn face unlighted by the vestige of a
smile.

So they jested, even when the play was deepest and while long-inherited
family manors passed out of the hands of their owners. The recent French
victory at _Fontenoy_ still rankled in the heart of every Englishman.
Within, the country seethed with an undercurrent of unrest and
dissatisfaction. It was said that there were those who boasted quietly
among themselves over their wine that the sun would yet rise some day on a
Stuart England, that there were desperate men still willing to risk th