"And I, too, am sure of it, Mr. Fox," cried Dorothy; clapping her hands.
"Persuade him to stay awhile in London, that you may have him at your
next theatricals at Holland House. Why, he knows Shakespeare and Pope
and--and Chaucer by heart, and Ovid and Horace,--is it not so, Mr.
Walpole?"

"Is not what so, my dear young lady?" asked Mr. Walpole, pretending not
to have heard.

"There!" exclaimed Dolly, pouting, when the laughter had subsided; "you
make believe to care something about me, and yet will not listen to what
I say."

I had seen at her feet our own Maryland gallants, the longest of whose
reputations stretched barely from the James to the Schuylkill; but here
in London men were hanging on her words whose names were familiarly
spoken in Paris, and Rome, and Geneva. Not a topic was broached by Mr.
Walpole or Mr. Fox, from the remonstrance of the Archbishop against
masquerades and the coming marriage of my Lord Albemarle to the rights
and wrongs of Mr. Wilkes, but my lady had her say. Mrs. Manners seemed
more than content that she should play the hostess, which she did
to perfection. She contrived to throw poisoned darts at the owner of
Strawberry that started little Mr. Marmaduke to fidgeting in his seat,
and he came to the rescue with all the town-talk at his command. He knew
little else. Could Mr. Walpole tell him of this club of both sexes just
started at Almack's? Mr. Walpole could tell a deal, tho' he took the
pains first to explain that he was becoming too old for such frivolous
and fashionable society. He could not, for the life of him, say why he
was included. But, in spite of Mr. Walpole, John Paul was led out in the
paces that best suited him, and finally, to the undisguised delight
of Mr. Fox, managed to trip Horry upon an obscure point in Athenian
literature. And this broke up the company.

As we took our leave Dorothy and Mr. Fox were talking together with
lowered voices.

"I shall see you before I go," I said to her.

She laughed, and glanced at Mr. Fox.

"You are not going, Richard Carvel," said she.

"That you are not, Richard Carvel," said Mr. Fox.

I smiled, rather lamely, I fear, and said good night.

CHAPTER XXX. A CONSPIRACY

"Banks, where is the captain?" I asked, as I entered the parlour the
next morning.

"Gone, sir, since seven o'clock," was the reply. "Gone!" I exclaimed;
"gone where?"

"Faith, I did not ask his honour, sir."

I thought it strange, but reflected t