Lady Foljambe looked discontented; the beautiful baldekins first seen had eclipsed the modest attractions of their less showy associates.
“Nay, I pass not (do not care) for those,” said she. “Show me velvet.”
The mercer answered by dexterously draping an unoccupied form, first with a piece of rich purple, then one of tawny, then one of deep crimson, and lastly a bright blue.
“And what price be they?”
He touched each as he recounted the prices, beginning with the purple.
“Fifteen shillings the ell, Dame; a mark (13 shillings 4 pence); fourteen shillings; half a mark. I have also a fair green at half a mark, a peach blossom at fourteen shillings, a grey at seven-and-sixpence, and a murrey (mulberry colour) at a mark.”
Lady Foljambe slightly shrugged her shoulders.
“Say a noble (6 shillings 8 pence) for the grey, and set it aside,” she said.
“Dame, I could not,” replied the mercer, firmly though respectfully. “My goods be honest matter; they be such as they are set forth, and they have paid the King’s dues.”
Like many other people, Lady Foljambe would have preferred smuggled goods, if they were cheaper than the honest article. Her conscience was very elastic about taxes. It was no great wonder that this spirit prevailed in days when the Crown could ruthlessly squeeze its subjects whenever it wanted extra money, as Henry the Third had done a hundred years before; and though his successors had not imitated his example, the memory of it remained as a horror and a suspicion. Dishonest people, whether they are kings or coal-heavers, always make a place more difficult to fill for those who come after them.