"Only--roses," he gasped, and fell back in the arms of his servants.


Chapter Five


Beau Nash stood at the door of the rooms, smiling blandly upon a dainty
throng in the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. The great exquisite
bent his body constantly in a series of consummately adjusted bows:
before a great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august deference;
somewhat stately to the young bucks; greeting the wits with gracious
friendliness and a twinkle of raillery; inclining with fatherly
gallantry before the beauties; the degree of his inclination measured
the altitude of the recipient as accurately as a nicely calculated
sand-glass measures the hours.

The King of Bath was happy, for wit, beauty, fashion--to speak more
concretely: nobles, belles, gamesters, beaux, statesmen, and poets
--made fairyland (or opera bouffe, at least) in his dominions; play ran
higher and higher, and Mr. Nash's coffers filled up with gold. To
crown his pleasure, a prince of the French blood, the young Comte de
Beaujolais, just arrived from Paris, had reached Bath at noon in state,
accompanied by the Marquis de Mirepoix, the ambassador of Louis XV. The
Beau dearly prized the society of the lofty, and the present visit was
an honor to Bath: hence to the Master of Ceremonies. What was better,
there would be some profitable hours with the cards and dice. So it was
that Mr. Nash smiled never more benignly than on that bright evening.
The rooms rang with the silvery voices of women and delightful laughter,
while the fiddles went merrily, their melodies chiming sweetly with the