“Doth it not in any wise depend on the woman?” saith Sir Robert, with a comical set of his lips. “It depends on the man, a sight more,” saith she.
“But, my mistress, bethink you of the saw—‘A man is what a woman makes him.’”
“Oh, is he so?” crieth Aunt Joyce, in scorn. “She’s a deal more what he makes her. ‘A good Jack, a good Gill!’ Saws cut two ways, Sir Robert.”
“Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other,” saith Father.
“Lettice, come thou and aid me,” saith Aunt Joyce. “Here be two men set on one poor woman.”
“Nay, I am under obedience, Joyce,” saith Mother, laughing.
“Forsooth, so thou art!” quoth she. “Bess, give me thine help.”
“I am beholden to you, Mistress Joyce,” saith Cousin Bess, “but I love not to meddle in no frays of other folk. I were alway learned that women were the meaner sort o’ th’ twain.”
“Go thy ways, thou renegade!” saith Aunt Joyce.
“Come, Joyce, shall I aid thee?” quoth Father.