"The Lord forbid!" ejaculates Pierre Radisson.

"Hoighty-toighty! Now! there you go, my saucy spark! Good lack! An
the king's women laid eyes on any other man, 'twould turn his head and
be his fortune! Naughty fellow!" she warns, with a flirt of her fan.
"We shall watch you! Ta-ta, don't tell me no! Oh, we know this _gâité
de coeur_! You'll presently be _intime_ o' Portsmouth and Cleveland
and all o' them!"

"Madame," groans Pierre Radisson, "swear, if you will! But as you love
me, don't abuse the French tongue!"

At which she gave him a slap with her fan.

"An I were not so young," she simpers, "I'd cuff your ears, you saucy
Pierre!"

"So young!" mutters Pierre Radisson, with grim looks at her powdered
locks. "Egad's life, so is the bud on a century plant young," and he
turns to his wife.

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