“May I wit what he said to thee, Edith?”
“Oh, a parcel of stuff touching mine hair and mine eyes, and the like,” said I. “I knew well enough what colours mine hair and eyes were of, without his telling me. Could I dress mine hair every morrow afore the mirror, and not see?”
“Well, Edith,” saith she, “methinks he did not take much of thee. I would I could have seen him,”—and her voice grew sadder. “Not that my voice should have had any potency with him: that had it never yet. But I would fain have noted how far the years had changed him, and if—if there seemed any more hope of his amendment than of old time. There was a time when in all Oxfordshire he was allowed the goodliest man, and I fear he was not far from being likewise the worst.”
Here come in Mother, and my Lady Stafford changed the discourse right quickly. I saw I must say no more. But I am well assured Aunt Joyce’s Mary was never my Lady Stafford. Who methinks it were it should serve no good end to set down.
Selwick Hall, December ye xix.
As we sat this even of the great chamber, saith Father:—
“Stafford, do you remember our talk some days gone, touching what manner of life there should be in Heaven?”
“That do I well,” Sir Robert made answer.
“Well,” quoth Father, “I have fallen to think more thereupon. And the thought comes to me—wherefore account we always that we shall do but one thing there, and that all shall do the same? Here is Milisent—ay, and Lettice too—that think they should be weary to sit of a cloud and sing for ever and ever.”
“Truly, so should I, methinks,” saith Sir Robert.