“Nay—it is Elizabeth,” said Lysken, with a shake of her head.
“More shame for thee,” retorted Philippa jokingly. “What business had any to call thee Elizabeth?”
“My father’s mother was Lysken Klaas.”
“Good.—Well, Thekla, I have looked this face o’er, and I can read no Avery therein.”
“’Tis all deep down in the heart,” said Mrs Tremayne.
“The best place for it,” replied Philippa. “Thou wilt do, child, as methinks. I would say it were easier to break thy heart than to beguile thy conscience. A right good thing—for the conscience. Is this Clare?” she asked, breaking off suddenly as Clare came in, with a tone which showed that she felt most interest in her of the three. She took both Clare’s hands and studied her face intently.
“Walter’s eyes,” she said. “Isoult Barry’s eyes! The maid could have none better. And John Avery’s mouth. Truth and love in the eyes; honour and good learning on the lips. Thou wilt do, child, and that rarely well.”
“Mistress Philippa Basset is a right old friend of thy dear grandame, Clare,” said Mrs Tremayne in explanation. “Thou canst not remember her, but this worthy gentlewoman doth well so, and can tell thee much of her when they were young maids together, and thy grandmother was gentlewoman unto Mistress Philippa her mother, my sometime Lady Viscountess Lisle.”
Clare looked interested, but she did not say much.
Mr Tremayne and Arthur came in together, only just in time for four-hours.