"Nay, good mistress," he replied. "Neither knight nor lord am I, but only plain Francis Bacon, barrister, and Secretary of the Star Chamber."
"Oh!" Phœbe exclaimed, "not yet, I see."
Then, as a look of grave inquiry settled over Bacon's features, she continued eagerly: "Enough of your additions, good Master Bacon. 'Twere better I offered my congratulations, sir, than prated of these lesser matters."
"Congratulations! Good lady, you speak in riddles!"
Smiling, she shook her head at him, looking meaningly into his eyes.
"Oh, think not all are ignorant of what you have so ably hidden, Master Bacon," she said. "Can it be that the author of that wondrous play I saw here given but yesternight can be content to hide his name behind that of a too greatly favored player?"
"Play, mistress!" Bacon exclaimed. "Why, here be more soothsaying manners from a fairer speaker—but still as dark as the uncouth ravings of that fellow—that—that Droop."
"Nay—nay!" Phœbe insisted. "You need fear no tattling, sir. I will keep your secret—though in very truth, were I in your worship's place, 'twould go hard but the whole world should know my glory!"
"Secret—glory!" Bacon exclaimed. "In all conscience, mistress, I beg you will make more clear the matter in question. Of what play speak you? Wherein doth it concern Francis Bacon?"
"To speak plainly, then, sir, I saw your play of the vengeful Jew and good Master Antonio. What! Have I struck home!"