“O ho!” cried the Doctor, “blows the wind from that quarter?”
Apparently it did so, for Robin coloured scarlet.
“Come, come, lad!” said he, “thou art but now out of thy swaddling-clothes, and what dost thou with such gear? Put it away, and go whip thy top, like a good lad!”
“Dr Thorpe!” said Robin in an aggrieved voice, and drawing himself to his utmost height, “I was nineteen years of age last Saint Agnes!” (January 21.)
“Thou art as many years of discretion as there be crowns o’ the sun (Note 1) in a halfpenny,” said he. “Nineteen, quotha! Why, thou idle hilding (youth), I have years sixty-nine, and I never thought of marrying yet.”
Isoult laughed, but Robin was grave as a bishop, and plainly deemed himself affronted.
“That is your affair, Dr Thorpe,” said he, demurely, “and this is mine, an’t like you.”
“A pretty plain hint to mind mine own business, whether it like me or no,” replied the old man, with a little merry laugh. “Well, Robin, hie after. Are ye agreed? and is the wedding-day fixed? Shall it be Midsummer Day? Give me a jolly piece of the cake, as what else thou dost; and Isoult! mind thou set it mighty thick with plums.”
“Dr Thorpe,” said Robin, his patience woefully tried, “I wish you would let me be. I was talking with my mother.”
“Say on!” answered he. “I will strive hard to set mine old legs a-dancing at thy wedding, though I promise not a galliardo (a dance wherein high leaps were taken, requiring great agility). My word on’t, it shall be a jovial sight! Hast seen the tailor touching thine attire? Purple satin, or cramoisie?” (Crimson velvet.)