"It had his hair in it, I warrant you," said Marion, not ill-naturedly—she was not an ill-natured girl—but with that spice of enjoyable excitement at the least adventure or misadventure, which gave Rochefoucauld the occasion to observe that there is something exhilarating in the misfortunes of our friends.
"Not it, forsooth!" said Tamzine. "Master Sellinger is not he that should lay violent hands of his greatest treasure to please a woman."
"Is his hair his greatest treasure?" laughed Marion.
"Trust me!" was Tamzine's sententious response. "Have you ne'er beheld him shake it with yon delicate turn of his head that he hath? Why, he beareth it a good inch longer than any other in the Court."
"Good lack! the man is a very popinjay,"[#] said Marion. "He might be a maid, with his pouncet-box and his pomanders."[#]
[#] Parrot.
[#] The pomander, now becoming old-fashioned, was a ball of sweet-scented drugs enclosed in a network of metal, which was held in the warm hand to call out its fragrance: the pouncet box had taken its place, and was filled with sweet powder.
"And his little mirror stuck of a little poke[#] of his doublet—have you ne'er watched him pull it forth when he counted him unseen?"
[#] Pocket is the diminutive of poke.
"Nay, verily! but doth he so? That passeth!"[#]