"Nay, Sir, I mean the other, her whom I love, her whom I now woo. I mean Mistress Barbara Quinton, Sir."
The King looked down and frowned; he patted his dog, he looked up again, frowning still. Then a queer smile bent his lips and he said in a voice which was most grave, for all his smile,
"You remember M. de Perrencourt?"
"I remember M. de Perrencourt very well, Sir."
"It was by his choice, not mine, Mr Dale, that you set out for Calais."
"So I understood at the time, Sir."
"And he is believed, both by himself and others, to choose his men—perhaps you will allow me to say his instruments, Mr Dale—better than any Prince in Christendom. So you would wed Mistress Quinton? Well, sir, she is above your station."
"I was to have been made her husband, Sir."
"Nay, but she's above your station," he repeated, smiling at my retort, but conceiving that it needed no answer.