As they sat at breakfast the next morning, which was Lady Day and Sunday, Lady Louvaine said—
“I would fain know what manner of neighbours we shall have here, whether pleasant or displeasant; for some of our comfort shall hang thereon.”
“Oh, there’s a capital fellow at the Golden Fish,” cried Aubrey. “His name is Tom Rookwood, and his sister Dorothy is the prettiest girl I have seen this month. I know nought of the Angel.”
“Ah!” said Hans, and shook his head, “I have seen the Angel.”
“And is he angelic?” responded Aubrey.
“There be angels good and ill,” Hans made answer. “Madam, I were best forewarn you—there’s a tongue dwelleth there.”
“What manner of tongue, Hans?” said Lady Louvaine, smiling.
“One that goes like a beggar’s clap-dish,” said he; “leastwise, it did all the while I was in the garden this morning. She greeted me o’er the wall, and would know who we were, and every one of our names, and what kin we were one to the other, and whence we came, and wherefore, and how long we looked to tarry—she should have asked me what we had to our breakfast, if I had not come in.”
“And how much toldest her?” inquired Temperance.
“Not a word that I could help,” answered Hans. “Indeed, that is the only comfort of her—that she asks questions so fast you can scarce slide in an answer. She was free enough with her information as well—told me her name, and how many children she had, and that she paid three-and-fourpence the yard for her perpetuance gown.”