"The bottle!" Phœbe exclaimed, in amazement. Then quite sternly: "Thou beliest him, knave! No more sober—" She checked herself, suddenly conscious of her indiscretion.
"Why, how knowest his habits?" she asked, more quietly.
"A saw un, mistress, sitting in the kitchen wi' two bottles o' Spanish wine. Ask the player else."
"The player! What player?"
"Him as was drinking wi' him. Each cracked his bottle, and 'twas nip and tuck which should call first for the second."
So Guy had spent the evening—those hours when she was tenderly dreaming of him with love renewed—drinking and carousing with some dissolute actor!
Within her Phœbe Wise and Mary Burton struggled for mastery of her opinion.
What more natural than that a poor lad, tired with waiting on his feet for hours for one look from the mistress who disdained him, should seek to forget his troubles quaffing good wine in the company of some witty player? This was Mary's view.
What! To leave the presence of his sweetheart—the girl to whom he had just written that penitent letter—to go fresh from the inspiration of all that should uplift a lover, and befuddle his brains with "rum," gossiping with some coarse-grained barn-stormer! So Phœbe railed.
"Who was the player?" she asked, sharply.