“Yes,” says he; “and a very sweet simile, my dear.” He turned to the landlord. “What is she, vintner?”
“God knows,” answered the man morosely. “A strolling play-actress, like as not. She’s no good, whatever she is.”
“No good is a better woman than you, you radish!” cried the girl.
“That’s certain,” said Hamilton. “You are answered, bluffer.”
“Answered?” said the man. “Aye, I know her. Trust her young tongue to answer, though you provoked it in the middle of a song.”
“Song? Does she sing?”
“Does she not—like the wicked young syrup she is. Sings like a kettle.”
The lady laughed.
“And best when in hot water. Shall I sing to you now?”
“Sing for your supper, like Master Tom Tucker,” said the Cavalier. “Yes, sing, by all means; only come down to do it. I’ll go bail for her,” he assured the landlord.