“Aubrey,” inquired Temperance, “I do marvel, and I would fain know, what thou dost all the day long? Doth thy Lord keep thee standing by his chair, first o’ one leg, and then o’ tother, while he hath an errand for thee?”
“Why, no, Aunt! I am not an errand-lad,” said Aubrey, and laughed more merrily than ever. “Of late is his Lordship greatly incommoded, and hath kept his chamber during many days of this last month; but when he hath his health, I will specify unto you what I do.”
“Prithee specify, and I shall be fain to hearken.”
“Well, of a morning I aid his Lordship at his lever, and after breakfast I commonly ride with him, if it be my turn: then will he read an hour or twain in the law, without the Parliament be sitting, when he is much busied, being not only a morning man, but at committees also; in the afternoon he is often at Court, or practising of music—just now he exerciseth himself in broken music (the use of stringed instruments) and brachigraphy (shorthand): then in the evening we join my Lady and her gentlewomen in the withdrawing chamber, and divers gestes and conceits be used—such as singing, making of anagrams, guessing of riddles, and so forth. There is my day.”
“Forsooth, and a useless one it is,” commented she. “The law-books and the Parliament business seem the only decent things in it.”
“Ah, ’tis full little changed,” remarked Lady Louvaine, “these sixty years since I dwelt at Surrey Place.” And she sighed.
“Temperance, I am astonished at you,” interposed Faith. “You do nought save fault-find poor Aubrey.”
“Poor Aubrey! ay, that he is,” returned his Aunt, “and like to be a sight poorer, for all that I can see. If you’ll fault-find him a bit more, Faith, there’ll not be so much left for me to do.”
“What is the matter?” asked Edith, coming softly in.
“There’s a pair of velvet pantofles and an other of silken hose the matter, my dear,” answered Temperance, “and a beaver hat with a brave blue feather in it. I trust you admire them as they deserve, and him likewise that weareth them.”