She opened his reply with trembling fingers. He agreed! And he would see her that evening. Victory at last!

At their meeting he told her not to bother about ``where'' -- he would attend to that. There was one of the new forte-pianos in the room and, as Claire rose to go, he asked her to sing him one song before she left. She sang him Scott's charming ballad ``Rosabelle,'' which was the vogue of the moment. She had never sung better.

``Your voice is delightful,'' he approved with a warm smile. ``Tomorrow will be a new experience -- I have never before made love to a nightingale. There have been cooing doves, chattering magpies, thieving jackdaws, a proud peacock, a silly goose, and a harpy eagle -- whom I was silly enough to mate with and who is now busy tearing at my vitals.''

And so they went, he choosing of all places an inn near Medmenham Abbey, scene a generation ago of the obscene orgies of the Hellfire Club. He regaled Claire with an account of the mock mass performed by the cassocked bloods, which he had had at firsthand from old Bud Dodington, one of the leaders of the so-called ``Order.'' Each wore the monkish scourge at his waist but this, it seems, was not employed for self-flagellation. Naked girls danced in the chancel of the Abbey, the youngest and seemingly the most innocent being chosen to read a sermon filled with veiled depravities.

The jaded amorist conjured up pictures of the blasphemous rites with relish. Alas, all that belonged to the age of ``Devil Dashwood'' and ``Wicked Wilkes,'' abbot and beadsman of the Order! The casual seduction of a seventeen year old bluestocking seemed tame by comparison.