But my Lady Kirke was blush-proof.
"Don't forget to pay special compliments to the favourites," she calls,
as we set out for Whitehall; and she must run to the door in a flutter
and ask if Pierre Radisson has any love-verse ready writ, in case of an
_amour_ with one of the court ladies.
"No," says Radisson, "but here are unpaid tailor bills! 'Tis as good
as your _billets-doux_! I'll kiss 'em just as hard!"
"So!" cries Lady Kirke, bobbing a courtesy and blowing a kiss from her
finger-tips as we rolled away in Sir John's coach.
"The old flirt-o'-tail," blurted Radisson, "you could pack her brains
in a hazel-nut; but 'twould turn the stomach of a grub!"
* * * * * *
'Twas not the Whitehall you know to-day, which is but a remnant of the
grand old pile that stretched all the way from the river front to the
inner park. Before the fires, Whitehall was a city of palaces reaching
far into St. James, with a fleet of royal barges at float below the
river stairs. From Scotland Yard to Bridge Street the royal ensign
blew to the wind above tower and parapet and battlement. I mind under
the archway that spanned little Whitehall Street M. Radisson dismissed
our coachman.
"How shall we bring up the matter of Hortense?" I asked.
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