“He’s safe — in France,” Robin said curtly.
“The poor young man! And the bon papa? Whither went he?”
“Lud, madam, do you ask us that?” laughed Prudence. “In France, maybe, or maybe in Scotland still. Who knows?”
The door opened, and the page let in fat Marthe, a tray in her hands. It was a very colossus of a woman, of startling girth, and with a smile that seemed to spread all over the full moon of her face. Like her mistress, from one to the other she looked, and was of a sudden smitten with laughter that shook all her frame like a jelly. The tray was set down; she clasped her hands and gasped: “Oh, la-la! To see the little monsieur habillé en dame!”
Robin sailed up to her and swept a practised curtsey.
“Your memory fails you, Marthe. Behold me — Prudence!”
She gave his arm a playful slap. “My memory, alors! No, no, m’sieur, you are not yet large enough to be mademoiselle.”
“Oh, unkind!” Robin lamented, and kissed her roundly.
“Marthe, there is need of secrecy, you understand?” My lady spoke urgently.
“Bien, madame; I do not forget.” Marthe put a finger to her lips. “ Tenez, it must be myself to wait always upon the false mademoiselle. I shall see to it.” She nodded in a business-like fashion. “John is with you yet?”