"Not so sure—not so sure, Pierre! We catch no glimpse of her nowadays; but they say young Lieutenant Blood o' the Tower shadows the court wherever she is——"
"A well-dressed young man?" adds Radisson, winking at me.
"And carries himself with a grand air," amplifies my lady, puffing out her chest, "but then, Pierre, when it comes to the point, your pretty wench hath no dower—no property——"
"Heaven be praised for that!" burst from my lips.
At which there was a sudden silence, followed by sudden laughter to my confusion.
"And so Master Stanhope came seeking the bird that had flown," twitted Radisson's mother-in-law. "Faugh—faugh—to have had the bird in his hand and to let it go! But—ta-ta!" she laughed, tapping my arm with her fan, "some one else is here who keeps asking and asking for Master Stanhope. Boy," she ordered, "tell thy master's guest to come down!"
Two seconds later entered little Rebecca of Boston Town. Blushing pink as apple-blossoms, dressed demurely as of old, with her glances playing a shy hide-and-seek under the downcast lids, she seemed as alien to the artificial grandeur about her as meadow violets to the tawdry splendour of a flower-dyer's shop.
"Fie, fie, sly ladybird," called out Sir John's wife, "here are friends of yours!"
At sight of us, she uttered a little gasp of pleasure.
"So—so—so joysome to see Boston folk," she stammered.