Early in May, Isoult went alone to market, which was not her custom; and coming back along Cornhill, she suddenly heard a voice say,—“Is it not Mrs Barry?”
Wondering who could thus recognise her who was not also aware of her marriage, she looked up into the face of a handsome, courtly gentleman, splendidly apparelled.
“Sir,” said she, “I pray you of your pardon; I am Isoult Barry, but I am not so fortunate as to know your name.”
“Do you not so?” replied he, and he smiled.
And when he smiled, Isoult thought she knew him.
“Is it Mr James Basset?” said she.
“Truly so,” answered he; “and I am very glad of thus meeting you. I cry you mercy for wrongly naming you, but in very deed I have forgot your present name. Dwell you hereabout?”
Isoult told him her name, and that she lived near London, yet not in the City; but she did not give her exact address.
“I trust we may be better acquainted,” said he, “and that I may find in you (as I cast no doubt) a woman faithful unto God and the Queen’s Grace.”
The terrible peril in which she stood stared her all at once in the face. James Basset was a gentleman of the chamber, and “a stout Papist.”