Silver lace adorned his throat and fell in deep ruffles over his hands, and in defiance of Fashion, which decreed that black alone should be worn to tie the hair, he displayed long silver ribands, very striking against his unpowdered head.
He raised his quizzing glass and looked round the room with an air of surprised hauteur. Lord Avon, leaning back in his chair at one of the tables, shook a reproving finger at him.
"Belmanoir, Belmanoir, we have seen her and we protest she is too charming for you!"
"In truth, we think we should be allowed a share in the lady'th thmileth," lisped one from behind him, and his Grace turned to face dainty, effeminate little Viscount Fotheringham, who stood at his elbow, resplendent in salmon-pink satin and primrose velvet, with skirts so full and stiffly whaleboned that they stood out from his person, and heels so high that instead of walking he could only mince.
Tracy made a low leg.
"Surely shall you have a share in her smiles an she wills it so," he purred, and a general laugh went up which caused the fop to flush to the ears, as he speedily effaced himself.
He had been one of those who had tried to accost Diana, and gossip-loving Will Stapely, with him at the time, had related the story of his discomfiture to at least half-a-dozen men, who immediately told it to others, vastly amused at the pertinacious Viscount's rebuff.
"What was it Selwyn said?" drawled Sir Gregory Markham, shuffling cards at Lord Avon's table.
Davenant looked across at him inquiringly.
"George? Of Belmanoir? When?"
"Oh, at White's one night-I forget-Jack Cholmondely was there-he would know; and Horry Walpole. 'Twas of Devil and his light o' lovesquite apt, on the whole."
Cholmondely looked up.
"Did I hear my name?"
"Ay. What was it George said of Belmanoir at White's the night Gilly made that absurd bet with Ffolliott?"
"When Gilly-oh, yes, I remember. 'Twas but an old hexameter tag, playing on his name: 'Est bellum bellis bellum bellare puellis.' He seemed to think it a fitting motto for a ducal house."
There was another general laugh at this. Markham broke in on it: "Who is she, Tracy?"
His Grace turned.
"Who is who?" he asked languidly.
Lord Avon burst out laughing.
"Oh, come now, Belmanoir, that won't do! It really will not! Who is she, indeed!"
"Ay, Belmanoir, who is the black-haired beauty, and where did you find her?" cried Tom Wilding pressing forward with a glass in one hand and a bottle of port in the other. "I thought you were captivated by Cynthia Evans?"