But now were no more pranks or junketings for Wat, no more liberties permitted from the prentices whose merry company he had hitherto preferred. He had suddenly awakened to a dignified sense of his position as journeyman, and Roger himself did not maintain it more gravely. Most remarkable, however, was the change in his appearance. It had always been an affront to Prothasy that Wat would never keep his clothes tidy or clean, she vowed he was a disgrace to their house, and that no others in the town made such a poor appearance. But now—now times indeed were changed! Now was Wat going off to the draper’s to purchase fine cloth, and taking it himself to the Tailors’ Guild, and most mighty particular was he about the cut of his sleeves. And as for his shoes, he ran to outrageous lengths in the toes—he who had always inveighed against the oafs who were not content with modest points! On the first Sunday on which Wat, thus attired, set forth, carrying a posy of lilies in his hand, and walking with such an air of conscious manliness as quite impressed those who met him, Hugh and Joan, with Agrippa, watching from the balcony, saw him turn up to St. Martin’s Gate, and both burst out laughing.
“What has come to Wat?” cried Hugh. “Didst see his posy?”
“That is for Thomasin,” Joan answered, nodding her pretty little head, “for I heard him ask mother what flowers maidens loved, and mother laughed, and said ’twas so long since she was a girl, she had forgotten, but if it was meant for Thomasin he had best ask Mistress Tirell. And I know Thomasin loves lilies. I wonder why Wat likes Thomasin so much? I like Alice better. But he is for ever talking about her yellow hair and her blue eyes, and wanting to hear if I have seen her pass. Look, Hugh, what a fierce-looking man!”
“That is he they call Henry of Doune, and Sir Adam Fortescue is stopping his horse to speak with him. And here comes Peter the shereman, and Nat the cordwainer. They say that. Earl Hugh has been quarrelling with the mayor again, and threatening to stop all the fishing in the Exe. Thy father is very wroth; he says the city bears it too tamely, and should complain to the king.”
“Hugh, tell me about thy corbel. Hast thou thought it out?”
“I am always thinking. I see such beautiful lines and curves in my dreams that I am quite happy—till I wake.”
“Father says in two or three months there will be a beginning, and I don’t know what to wish,” continued Joan. “I want both of you to do the best.”
“There is no fear. I cannot match with the master.”
“There is no other that can match with thee then!” cried Joan, fondling Agrippa. “He first and thou second—that is what it must be.”
Hugh shook his head.