“Thou art but a simple lass, I can see,” reflectively added Dame La Theyn. “Thou hast right the young lass’s notions touching truth, and faith, and constancy, and such like. All a parcel of moonshine, child! There is no such thing, not in this world. Some folks be a bit worse than others, but that’s all. I dare reckon thy knight is one of the better end. At any rate, thou wilt find it comfortable to think so.”
Clarice was inwardly convinced that Vivian belonged to the scrag end, so far as character went.
“That’s the true way to get through the world, child. Shut thy eyes to whatever thou wouldst not like to see. Nobody’ll admire thee more for having red rims to ’em. And, dear heart, where’s the good? ’Tis none but fools break their hearts. Wise folks jog on jollily. And if there’s somewhat to forgive on the one side, why, there’ll be somewhat on the other. Thou art not an angel—don’t fancy it. And if he isn’t neither—”
Of that fact Clarice felt superlatively convinced.
“The best way is not to expect it of him, and thou wilt be the less disappointed. So get out thy ribbons and busk thee, and let’s have no more tears shed. There’s been a quart too much already.”
A slight movement of nervous impatience was the sole reply.
“Eh, Clarice? Ne’er a word, trow?”
Then she turned round a wan, set, distressed face, with fervent determination glowing in the eyes.
“Mother! I would rather die, and be out of it!”
“Be out of what, quotha?” demanded Dame La Theyn, in astonished tones.