“Not that I heard,” Ned makes answer. “He had two or three strings to his bow, I guess. One a right handsome young lady, daughter unto my Lord of Sheffield, that had taken up with him the new fashion called Euphuism.”
“Prithee interpret, Ned,” saith Father, “for that passeth my weak head.”
I saw Milly to blush, and cast down her eyes of her tapestry-work: and I guessed she wist what it were.
“’Tis a rare diversion, Sir, come up of late,” answers Ned: “whereby, when a gentlewoman and a gentleman be in treaty of love,—or without the same, being but friends—they do agree to call each other by certain dainty and fantastical names: as the one shall be Perfection, and the other Hardihood: or, the one Sweetness, and the other Fortitude: and the like. I prayed Wat to show me how it were, or else had I wist no more than a baker how to reef a sail. The names whereby he and his lady do call each other be, she his Excellency, and he her Courage.”
“Be these men and women grown?” quoth Father.
“Nay, sure!” cries Cousin Bess.
“Every one, Sir,” saith Ned, a-laughing.
“And, poor souls! can they find nought better to do?” quoth Father.
“They have not yet, it seems,” saith Aunt Joyce.
“Are you ne’er mocking of us, think you?” saith Cousin Bess to Ned.