She busied herself with the comb awhile in silence. After a time she said, “O Queen, mistress of the hearts of men, there is not a lord in Witchland, nor in earth beside, you might not bind your servant with one thread of this hair of yours. The likeliest and the goodliest were yours at an eye-glance.”
The Lady Prezmyra looked dreamily into her own sea-green eyes imaged in the glass. Then she smiled mockingly and said, “Whom then accountest thou the likeliest and the goodliest man in all the stablished earth?”
The old woman smiled. “O Queen,” answered she, “this was the very matter in dispute amongst us at supper only this evening.”
“A pretty disputation!” said Prezmyra. “Let me be merry. Who was adjudged the fairest and gallantest by your high court of censure?”
“It was not generally determined of, O Queen. Some would have my Lord Gro.”
“Alack, he is too feminine,” said Prezmyra.
“Others our Lord the King.”
“There is none greater,” said Prezmyra, “nor more worshipful. But for an husband, thou shouldst as well wed with a thunder-storm or the hungry sea. Give me some more.”
“Some chose the lord Admiral.”
“That,” said Prezmyra, “was a nearer stroke. No skipjack nor soft marmalady courtier, but a brave, tall, gallant gentleman. Ay, but too watery a planet burned at his nativity. He is too like a statua of a man. No, nurse, thou must bring me better than he.”