“Ay so, Lucrece? I was about to take a turn or twain in the garden; come with me, lass.”
“So better, Father, for that I must say lacketh no other ears.”
“What now?” demanded Sir Thomas, laughing. “Wouldst have money for a new chain, or leave to go to a merry-making? Thou art welcome to either, my lass.”
“I thank you, Father,” said Lucrece gravely, as they paced slowly down one of the straight, trim garden walks: “but not so,—my words are of sadder import.”
Sir Thomas turned and looked at her. Never until this moment, in all her four-and-twenty years, had his second daughter given him an iota of her confidence.
“Nay, what now?” he said, in a perplexed tone.
“I pray you, Father, be not wroth with me, for my reasons be strong, if I am so bold as to ask at you if you have yet received any order from the Queen’s Majesty’s Council, touching the disposing of Don John?”
“Art thou turning states-woman, my lass? Nay, not I—not so much as a line.”
“Might I take on me, saving your presence, Father, to say so much as—I would you would yet again desire the same?”
“Why, my lass, hath Don John offenced thee, that thou wouldst fain be rid of him? I would like him to tarry a while longer. What aileth thee?”