“Nay, but I was unwilling: and my alacrity was to have revenge upon the man who was searing my poor heart. And then what did you show me when you had made your capture? That wretched drab of a serving-girl.”
“Am I?” muttered Janet, who had half entered the room, and had heard his words.
“Well, I am wrong,” growled the founder; “and I am glad of it. I’d give something to know that Gil Carr’s visits had all been to see yon wench.”
“Rely upon it they were, Master Cobbe. My life upon it they were,” said Sir Mark, eagerly.
“Hah!” ejaculated the founder; “rely upon it, eh? And why, pray, Sir Mark, dost thou take so sudden an interest in my child?”
“Sudden, sir? Nay, it is not sudden. From the first moment I saw Mistress Mace—”
“Thou loved’st her. Of course; the old story that has been poured into silly maidens’ ears from the beginning of the world. Stop, sir, listen to me,” he continued, as Sir Mark was about to speak. “I am not a learned theology man, like Master Peasegood or Father Brisdone, but, as you say, I’d wager my life that, when the serpent urged pretty little, innocent Mistress Eve to take the forbidden fruit, he gave her a lesson or two in the art of love, and upset her for the rest of her life.”
“Maybe he did,” said Sir Mark, smiling; “but the serpent was insincere, and I am no serpent.”
“How do I know that, young man?” said the founder, laying his hand upon the other’s breast. “I’ve been thinking a good deal about your visit lately, and I will tell you flat that I have kept you here as a scarecrow.”
“A scarecrow?”