“More seemly!” cried Sir Mark. “Look at her. Did’st ever see one more sweet and pure of mien? See the candour and gentleness upon her brow and lip. You are wrong, Master Cobbe, you are wrong; my life upon it you wrong her by your suspicions of her interviews with Carr.”
“Do I?” said the founder, hotly. “Let’s have her in, then, and ask her. I grant that she is too truthful to lie.”
“Nay, nay!” cried Sir Mark, excitedly; “I would not have her insulted by such suspicions. Your daughter is a lady. It would be cruel.”
“Odds life, man,” cried the founder, half-amused by the other’s earnestness. “Whom have we here—the King’s champion?”
“The Queen’s, you should say, Master Cobbe,” replied the other. “Master Cobbe, you do not understand your daughter’s ways.”
“I understand my own,” said the founder, gruffly, “and I made her. She’s my own flesh and blood, Sir Mark. Bah! I understand her whims and follies better than you.”
“Nay!” cried Sir Mark. “You roused me up last night to come and be a witness of the truth of thy suspicions that sweet Mistress Mace held clandestine meetings with Captain Carr, though I would have wagered my life upon the suspicions being false.”
“Thou did’st not say such a word last night,” said the founder drily.
“Nay, how could I force my opinion upon you?” said Sir Mark. “I could only follow, and pray that you were wrong; and what did you show me for result, when you had, as you thought, forced me to be an unwilling witness of sweet Mistress Mace’s shame?”
“I saw no unwillingness,” said the founder, drily; “I thought thou obeyed’st it with eager joy.”