Mrs Louvaine closed her eyes with an air of deeply-tried forbearance.
“Come, lad, out with thy news,” added Temperance. “Wherewith hath my Lady guarded her new spring gowns? That shall serve, I reckon.”
Aubrey laughed. “I have not seen them yet, Aunt. But I heard say of one of the young gentlewomen that silk is now for the first to be woven in England, so ’tis like to be cheaper than of old.”
“There’s a comfort!” said Mrs Louvaine, rather less languidly than usual.
“I heard tell likewise of a fresh colewort, from Cyprus in the East—they call it broccoli or kale-flower. Methinks there is nought else, without you would hear of a new fashion of building of churches, late come up—but his Lordship saith ’tis a right ancient fashion, wherein the old Greeks were wont to build their houses and temples.”
“Methinks it scarce meet to go to the heathen for the pattern of a church,” said Lady Louvaine; “are not our old churches fair enough, and suitable for their purpose?”
“In this new fashion he no chancels,” said Aubrey.
“Well, and I should hold with that,” cried Temperance: “they give rise to vain superstitions. If there be no mass, what lack we of a chancel?”
“If men list, my dear, to bring in the superstitions,” quietly remarked Lady Louvaine, “they shall scarce stick at the want of a chancel.”
“True, Madam: yet would I fain make it as hard to bring them as ever I could.”