“What thou wilt,” muttered Blanche sulkily.
“I will lay out what I think shall like thee best,” was her sister’s kind reply.
“I would like my green sleeves, (Note 1) and my tawny kirtle,” said Blanche in a slightly mollified tone.
“Very well,” replied Clare, and hastened away to execute her commission, calling Barbara as she went.
“What ado doth Sir Thomas make of this matter!” said Lady Enville, applying again to the pomander. “If he would have been ruled by me—Blanche, child, hast any other edge of pearl?” (Note 2.)
“Ay, Mother,” said Blanche absently.
“Metrusteth ’tis not so narrow as that thou wearest. It becometh thee not. And the guarding of that gown is ill done—who set it on?”
Blanche did not remember—and, just then, she did not care.
“Whoso it were, she hath need be ashamed thereof. Come hither, child.”
Blanche obeyed, and while her mother gave a pull here, and smoothed down a fold there, she stood patiently enough in show, but most unquietly in heart.