"Did not your wit exceed your gallantry, sir," she said, courtesying slightly, "I had had my answer sooner."
Shakespeare was somewhat taken aback to see a developed young woman, evidently of gentle birth, where he had thought to find the mere prank-loving child of some neighboring cottager. Instantly his manner changed. Bowing courteously, he stepped forward and began in a deferential voice:
"Nay, then, fair mistress, an I had known——"
"Tut—tut!" she interrupted, astonished at her own boldness. "You thought me a chit, sir. Let it pass. Pray what think you of my lines?"
"They seemed the whisper of a present muse," he said, gayly, but with conviction in his voice. "'Twas in the very mood of Jacques, my lady—a melancholy fellow by profession——"
"Holding that light which another might presently approve"—she broke in—"and praise bestowing on ill deserts in the mere wantonness of a cynic wit! What!—doth the cap fit?"
The amazement in her companion's face was irresistible, and Phœbe burst forth into a spontaneous laugh of purest merriment.
"'A hit—a hit—a very palpable hit!'" she quoted, clapping her hands in her glee.
"Were not witches an eldritch race," said Shakespeare, "you, mistress, might well lie under grave suspicion."
"What—what! Do I not fit the wizened stamp of Macbeth's sisters three?"