litter 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!"

At which young Sidney kisses her finger-tips and bids her pay the debt
in favours; for the way to the king was through the influence of
Castlemaine or Portsmouth or other of the dissolute crew.

Round other tables sat men and women, old and young, playing away
estate and fortune and honour at tick-tack or ombre or basset. One
noble lord was so old that he could not see to game, and must needs
have his valet by to tell him how the dice came up. On the walls hung
the works of Vandyke and Correggio and Raphael and Rubens; but the pure
faces of art's creation looked down on statesmen bending low to the
beck of adventuresses, old men pawning a noble name for the leer of a
Portsmouth, and women vying for the glance of a jaded king.

At the far end of the apartment was a page-boy dressed as Cupid,
singing love-songs. In the group of listeners lolled the languid king.
Portsmouth sat near, fanning the passion of a poor young fool, who hung
about her like a moth; but Charles was not a lover to be spurred. As
Portsmouth played her ruse the more openly a contemptuous smile flitted
over the proud, dark face of the king, and he only fondled his lap-dog
with indifferent heed for all those flatterers and foot-lickers and
curry-favours hovering round royalty.

Barillon, the French ambassador, pricked up his ears, I can tell you,
when Chaffinch, the king's man, came back with word that His Majesty
was ready to hear M. Radisson.

"Now, lad, move about and keep your eyes open and your mouth shut!"
whispers M. Radisson as he