“Please, I’m ready!” announced little Roger in a whisper through the crack of the door, in an incredibly short space of time.
“Why wert thou not the firstborn?” exclaimed the Princess. “I would thou hadst been! What is Nym about?”
“Combing his hair,” said Roger, glancing back at him, “and hath been this never so long.”
Constance dashed back into the room with one of her quick, impulsive movements, snatched the comb from his dilatory young Majesty, smoothed his hair in a second, ordered him to wash his hands, and to put on his gown and tunic, and stood over him while he did it.
“The saints have mercy on thee, Nym, and send thee a wise council!” said she, half in earnest and half in jest. “The whole realm will go to sleep else.”
“Well, they might do worser,” responded Edmund calmly.
The two sluggards were ready at last, but not before Constance had lost her temper, and had noticed the unruffled endurance of Anne.
“Why, Nan, thou hast patience enough!” she said.
“I have had need these seven years,” answered the maiden quietly.
“Now, Maude, take thou Lord Roger by the hand; and Nan, take thy sister. Nym, thou comest with me. Lead on, Sir Bertram; and mind all of you—no bruit, not enough to wake a mouse!”