“Well, then, to fall to:—Where is my Lord?”
“In Tewkesbury Abbey, as methought.”
“A truce to thy fooling, child! Thou wist well enough that I would say my Lord of Kent.”
“How lookest I should wit, Custance? We sisters of Saint Clare be no news-mongers.—Well, so far as I knowledge, my Lord of Kent is with the Court. I saw him at Westminster a month gone.”
“Is it well with him?”
“Very well, I would say, from what I saw.” Constance’s mind was too much engrossed with her own thoughts to put the right interpretation on that cold, mocking smile which kept flitting across her cousin’s lips.
“And wist where be my little Dickon, and Nib?” (Isabel).
“At Langley, in care of Philippa, our fair cousin,” (then synonymous with relative).
“Good. And Dickon my brother?”
“I scantly wis—marry, methinks with the Court, at this present.”