And also St.
James's Street crammed with sedan chairs, and black pages with parrots, and
the rattle of dice at White's or Almack's, and the hurrying feet of the
Duke of Queensberry's running footmen. Such romantic dreams should come to
you. Sliding panels and gentlemen driving heiresses to Gretna Green, and
secret meeting places, and Fleet marriages and the scent of lavender, musk,
and bergamot!
But the song is nearly over and the curtains are drawn back.
The room might be a background to a picture by Zoffany, dim and mellow and
empty. There is a door leading to the passage; another that must lead to
the Beau's bedroom. There is a fireplace with a fire burning. A portrait of
the Woman of the World is over the fireplace. There is a dressing-table by
the fireplace, with a tall wig stand and a big arm-chair by it. There is
a bureau with writing materials. There are cupboards in the wall full of
clothes and stockings and shoes. The bedroom door is open.
Harlequin-Valet stands listening until the sound of the song dies away.
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