Robin went off with a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. He was constrained to drive out visiting with my Lady Lowestoft, and went, smothering a yawn.

Prudence — she was beginning, she thought, to feel more of a man than a woman — strolled round to White’s, and found Mr Walpole there reading the “Spectator”. Mr Walpole was graciously pleased to exchange a few words; he had a small flow of tittle-tattle at his tongue’s tip, and announced his intention of retiring to Strawberry Hill. He protested that these late nights in town were harmful to his constitution. He raised supercilious brows at the sight of Mr Markham entering the room, and retired once more behind the “Spectator”.

Mr Markham bowed to Prudence, and went to write letters at a table against the wall. Prudence stood talking to one Mr Dendy, and was presently tapped on the shoulder.

“Here’s your man, Devereux!” said the voice of Sir Francis Jollyot.

Mr Devereux came up with his mincing gait. “’Pon my soul, so ’tis!” He swept a leg, flourishing a scented handkerchief. “I am but this instant come from Arlington Street, where they told me you had walked out. I have to beg the honour of your company at a small gathering I have a mind to hold tonight. A little game of Chance, you understand.” He held up a very white finger. “Now don’t, I implore you, don’t say me nay, Mr Merriot!”

Prudence smothered a sigh. “Why, sir, I confess I had purposed to spend this evening with my sister,” she began.

“Oh, come now, Merriot!” expostulated Jollyot jovially, “you must not deny me my revenge!”

“To be sure, I live in a most devilish outlandish spot,” said Mr Devereux mournfully. “But you may take a chair: you know you may take a chair. ’Pon rep, sir, I do positively believe an evening spent at home is vastly more fatiguing than a quiet card-party. ’Pon my honour, sir!”

There was nothing for it but to show polite acceptance.

Mr Devereux was wreathed in smiles. “To tell you the truth, sir, I’ve had a devilish ticklish task to find anyone free tonight,” he said naively. “Fanshawe’s engaged; so’s Barham. Molyneux goes out of town; Selwyn’s in bed with a trifling fever.”

Over against the wall Mr Markham stopped writing, and raised his head.

“I’m overwhelmed by the honour done me,” said Prudence ironically.

The irony went unperceived. “Not at all, my dear Merriot. Oh, not in the least! I shall see you then, at five? You can take a chair, you know, and be there in a trice.”

“As you say, sir. But I think I have not the pleasure of knowing your address.”

Mr Devereux simpered elegantly. “Oh, a devilish inconvenient hole, sir! I’ve apartments in Charing Cross.”

“Ah yes, I remember the street now,” Prudence said. “At five o’clock, sir.”

Mr Devereux beamed upon her, and airily waved one languid hand. “Au revoir, then, my dear Merriot. You will take a chair, and suffer not the least inconvenience in the world. An evening at home — oh no, ecod!” He drifted away on Jollyot’s arm, and the rest of his sentence only reached Prudence as a confused murmur.

Mr Markham went on with his writing.

Prudence walked slowly back to Arlington Street, and remarked to Robin, on his return, that she was in danger of wearing herself away to skin and bone.

Robin was bored. “Heigh-ho, would I were in your shoes! All this female society gives me mal-à-la-tête.”

“Give you my word these card-parties and drinking bouts will be the death of me.”

Robin swung an impatient foot. “Does it occur to you, my dear, that events have not transpired precisely as they were planned?” he inquired with a rueful look.

“It has occurred to me many times. We meant to lie close.”

“Oh!” My Lady Lowestoft was arranging flowers in a big bowl. “But the bon papa planned it thus, my children. I was told to present you to the world.”

“Egad, we owe it to the old gentleman, do we?” said Robin. “I might have known. But why?”

“Seulement, I think he judged it wisest. You escape remark this way. That is true, no?”

“I suppose so. But the impropriety of Prue’s conduct — oh lud, ma’am!”

“Consider only the impropriety of your own, my child!” chuckled my lady.

“I do, ma’am, often. But as regarding this charming réunion tonight, Mistress Prue, you’ll be pleased to take a chair, and eschew the Burgundy.”

“Behold the little mentor!” Prudence bowed to him. “Rest you content, my Kate.”

The evening was like a dozen other such evenings. There was dinner, and some ribald talk; cards, with the decanter passing from hand to hand, and the candles burning lower and lower in their sockets. Prudence made her excuses soon after midnight. Her host rolled a bleary eye towards her, and protested thickly. Prudence was firm, however, and won her way. A sleepy lackey opened the front door for her, and she stepped out into the cool night air.

The street was deserted, but she knew a chair might be found at Charing Cross, a few score yards away. She swung her cloak over her arm, and walked in that direction, glad of this breath of clean air after the stuffiness of the card room.

It may have been that never quite dormant watchfulness in her that warned her of danger. No more than fifty yards up the street she felt it in the air, and checked her pace slightly. There was a shadow crouched in an embrasure in the wall a few steps further on — a shadow that had something of the form of a man. She slid a hand to her sword hilt, loosening the blade in the scabbard. She must walk on: no use turning back now. A little pale, but steady-eyed as ever, she went forward, her fingers closed about the sword hilt.

The shadow moved, and behold! there were two other shadows springing up before her. There was a flash of steel as she wrenched the sword free from the scabbard, and for a moment the shadowy figures held back. The moment’s hesitation was enough to allow her to get her back against the wall, and to take a sure grip on the cloak over her left arm. Then there was a hoarse murmur, and the three rushed in on her with cudgels upraised.

Her rapier swept a circle before her; the foremost man jumped back with a curse, but the fellow to the right sprang in to aim a vicious blow at Prudence’s head. The rapier shot out, and the point struck home. Came a gasp, and a check: the cloak, unerringly thrown, descended smotheringly over the wounded man’s head, and there was at once a tangle of cloth and hot oaths.

Prudence made lightning use of this momentary diminution in the number of her assailants, parried a blow aimed at her sword arm, sprang sideways a little, and lunged forward the length of her arm. There was a groan, and the sword came away red, while the cudgel fell clattering to earth.

She was breathless and panting; this could not last. Even now the third man had got himself free of the cloak, and was creeping on her with it held in his hand. She guessed he meant to catch at her blade through it, and her heart sank. She thrust shrewdly at the man before her, and staggered under a blow from a cudgel on her left. She was nearly spent, and she knew that a few moments more must end it.

Then, from a little way down the street came a shout, and the sound of a man running. “Hold them, lad, I’m with you!” cried the newcomer, and Prudence recognised the voice of Mr Belfort.

He fell upon her assailants from the rear, and there was swift and bloody work done. With a howl the man Prudence had first wounded went running off down the street, one hand clipped to his shoulder. His flight was a signal for the other two to follow suit. In another minute the street was empty, save for Prudence and the Honourable Charles.

Mr Belfort leaned panting on his sword, and laughed hugely. “Gad, see ’em run!” he said. “Hey, are you hurt, lad?”

Prudence was leaning against the wall, dizzy and shaken. The shoulder which had sustained the blow from the cudgel ached sickeningly. With an effort she stood upright. “Naught. A blow on the shoulder, no more.” She swayed, but mastered the threatened faintness, and bent to pick up her cloak. Her hand shook slightly as she wiped her sword in its folds, but she managed to smile. “I have — to thank you — for your prompt assistance,” she said, trying to get her breath. “I rather thought I was sped.”

“Ay, three to one, blister them,” nodded Mr Belfort. “But white-livered curs, ’pon my soul. Not an ounce of fight in ’em. Here, take my arm.”

Prudence leaned gratefully on it. “Just a momentary breathlessness,” she said. “I am well enough now.”

“Gad, it must have been a nasty blow!” said Mr Belfort. “You are shaken to bits, man. Come home with me; my lodging is nearer than yours.”

“No, no, I thank you!” Prudence said earnestly. “The blow — struck an old wound. I hardly heed it now.”

“Tare an’ ’ouns, but that’s bad!” cried Mr Belfort. “Really, my dear fellow, you must come to my place and let me look to it.”

“On my honour, sir, it’s less than naught. You may see for yourself I am quite recovered now. I shall not trespass on your hospitality at this hour of night.”

He protested that the night was young yet, but not to all his entreaties would Prudence yield. They walked on together towards Charing Cross, the Honourable Charles still adjuring Prudence at intervals to go home with him. “By gad, sir, these Mohocks become a positive scandal!” he exclaimed. “A gentleman mayn’t walk abroad, damme, without being set upon these days!”

“Mohocks?” Prudence said. “You think they were Mohocks, then?”

“Why, what else? The town’s teeming with ’em. I was set on myself t’other day. Stretched one fellow flat!”