“I’ll give you as many ells as you give me shillings, and neither more nor less. Twelve? Very good.”
Mrs Clere measured off the florence, tied it up, received the twelve shillings, which Audrey drew from her pocket as slowly as possible, perhaps fancying that Mrs Clere might relent, and threw it into the till as if the coins were severely to blame for something. Audrey took up her purchase, and went out.
“Whatever’s come to Mistress Clere?” asked a young woman who stood next to Rose, waiting to be served. “She and Audrey Wastborowe’s changed tempers this morrow.”
“Something’s vexed her,” said Rose. “I’m sorry, for I want to ask her a favour, when I’ve done my business.”
“She’s not in a mood for favour-granting,” said the young woman. “That’s plain. You’d better let be while she’s come round.”
“Nay, I can’t let be,” whispered Rose in answer.
“Now or never, is it? Well, I wish you well through it.”
Mistress Clere, who had been serving another customer with an ounce of thread—there were no reels of thread in those days; it was only sold in skeins or large hanks—now came to Rose and the other girl.
“Good-morrow, Gillian Mildmay! What’s wanting?”
“Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! My mother bade me ask if you had a fine marble cloth, about five shillings the ell, for a bettermost gown for her.”