As he stood gazing at the bewitching face looking up from the Mermaid’s Glass, its owner suddenly glanced over her shoulder, and saw Tristram staring at her.
Tristram Bird could see over the maiden’s head into the pool.
‘Good-morning to you, fair maid,’ he said, still keeping his bold dark eyes fixed upon her, telling himself as he gazed that her face was even more bewitching than was its reflection.
‘Good-morning, sir,’ said she.
‘Doing your toilet out in the open,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ quoth she, wondering who the handsome youth could be and how he came to be there.
‘Your hair is worth combing,’ he said.
‘Is it?’ said she.
‘It is, my dear,’ he said. ‘’Tis the colour of oats waiting for the sickle.’