“Dear heart, Dulcie, dost think I count all women angels, by reason I am one myself?” quoth Aunt Joyce. “I know better, forsooth.”
“Methinks, Aunt, I shall follow your example,” saith Ned, winking on me, that was beside him. “Women be such ill matter, I’ll sheer off from ’em.”
“Well, lad, thou mayest do a deal worser,” saith Aunt Joyce: “yet am I more afeared of Wat than thee.”
“Is Wat the more like to wed a French hood?” saith Ned.
“I reckon so much,” saith she, “or a box of perfume, or some such rubbish. Eh dear, this world! Ned, ’tis a queer place: and the longer thou livest the queerer shalt thou find it.”
“’Tis a very pleasant place, Aunt, by your leave,” said I.
“Thou art not yet seventeen, Edith,” saith she: “and thou hast not seen into all the dusty corners, nor been tangled in the spiders’ webs.—Well, Lettice, I reckon Aubrey gave consent?”
“Oh ay,” saith Mother, “in case Milisent were agreeable.”
“And were Milisent agreeable?” asks my Lady Stafford.
“I think so much,” made answer Mother, and smiled.