"Pretty?" echoed Barbara. "And pray what do you know of prettiness, Master Simon?"
"What I have learnt at Quinton Manor," I answered, with a bow.
"That doesn't prove her pretty," retorted the angry lady.
"There's more than one way of it," said I discreetly, and I took a step towards the visitor, who stood some ten yards from us, laughing still and plucking a flower to pieces in her fingers.
"She isn't known to you?" asked Barbara, perceiving my movement.
"I can remedy that," said I, smiling.
Never since the world began had youth been a more faithful servant to maid than I to Barbara Quinton. Yet because, if a man lie down, the best of girls will set her pretty foot on his neck, and also from my love of a thing that is new, I was thoroughly resolved to accost the gardener's guest; and my purpose was not altered by Barbara's scornful toss of her little head as she turned away.
"It is no more than civility," I protested, "to ask after her health, for, coming from London, she can but just have escaped the plague."
Barbara tossed her head again, declaring plainly her opinion of my excuse.
"But if you desire me to walk with you——" I began.