"Knock away, you devils. You won't break those panels in a hurry. For
all that, the place isn't safe for you, Mr. Vane."

"What, you know me?"

She laughed. Her laughter was loud rather than musical.

"Haven't I seen you with many a merry party at Spring Gardens? Don't you
remember that mad night when one of your friends was full of wine?
Didn't I cut off the end of his periwig and throw it to the mob to be
scrambled for?"

Lancelot Vane's pale face flushed slightly. He hadn't a very precise
recollection of what had happened on that night of frolic and revelry.
Like the rest he had had his bottle or two. The full blooded handsome
woman whom nothing abashed, who could take her liquor like a man, whose
beauty fired the souls of the gallants hovering about her wrangling for
her smiles, was part of the confused picture that had remained in his
memory. He had some vague remembrance of having kissed her or that she
had kissed him--it didn't matter which it was, nothing mattered very
much when the wine was in and the wit was out.

Yet now when both were sober and her round, plump arm was round his
shoulders on the plea of supporting him he felt embarrassed, ashamed.

"I thank you, madam, for your help," he said hurriedly. "But I won't
bring trouble upon you. Those rascals are still clamouring for my
blood--why I know not--and if they once burst into the house you'll
suffer."