“God save thee, Robin dear!” was Philippa’s greeting. “Art rested from Little Ease? I saw thee but slightly sithence, mind thou, and never had no good talk with thee.”
Mr Tremayne laughed more merrily than was usual with him.
“Good Mistress Philippa, if thirty years were not enough to rest a man, in very deed he were sore aweary.”
“Now, Arthur,” said Philippa, turning to him bluntly, “come and let me look thee o’er.”
Arthur obeyed, with grave lips, but amused eyes.
“Robin’s eyes—Thekla’s mouth—Father Rose’s brow—Custance Tremayne’s chin,” she said, enumerating them rapidly. “If the inward answer the outward, lad, thou shouldst be a rare good one.”
“Then I fear it doth not so,” said Arthur soberly, “Humbleness will do thee no hurt, lad.—Now, Thekla, let us have our four-hours. I could eat a baken brick wall. Ay me! dost mind thee of the junkets, in old days, at the Lamb?”
“Thekla, I told thee afore, and I do it yet again,—women be flat fools. The biggest I know is Orige Enville. And in good sooth, that is much to say! She is past old Doll, at Crowe, that threw her kerchief over the candle to put it out. Blanche may be a step the better; methinks she is. But for all that, she is Orige Enville’s daughter. I would as soon fetch my bodkin and pierce that child to the heart, as I would send her to the Court, where her blind bat of a mother would fain have her. ’Twere the kindlier deed of the twain. Lack-a-daisy! she would make shipwreck of life and soul in a month. Well, for Clare, then—I give thee to wit, Thekla, thou art that child’s mother. Orige is not. She never was worth her salt. And she never will be. So the sooner thou win the maid hither, the better for her.”
“She doth abide hither, Mistress Philippa, even now.”
“Tush, child! I mean the sooner she weds with Arthur.”