‘Lord Branchimont is the finest knight I ever set eyes upon,’ said Theodore. ‘I would I were his squire.’
‘Thou shalt be his squire, too, little Theodore, if all goes well.’
‘Oh! glorious day, when I shall wear a sword instead of a scarf! Shall I indeed be his squire, lady sweet?’
‘Indeed I think thou wilt make a very proper squire.’
‘I would I were a knight like Lord Branchimont; as tall as a lance, and as strong as a lion; and such a fine beard too!’
‘It is indeed a beard, Theodore,’ said the Lady Imogene. ‘When wilt thou have one like it?’
‘Another summer, perchance,’ said Theodore, passing his small palm musingly over his smooth chin.
‘Another summer!’ said the Lady Imogene, laughing; ‘why, I may as soon hope to have a beard myself.’
‘I hope you will have Lord Branchimont’s,’ said the page.
‘Amen!’ responded the lady.