When she had left him, Master Ambrose paced impatiently up and down, frowning heavily, and occasionally shaking his head.
Then he stood stock-still, in deep thought. Absently, he picked up from the work-table a canvas shoe, in process of being embroidered with wools of various brilliant shades.
At first, he stared at it with unseeing eyes.
Then, the surface of his mind began to take stock of the object. Its half finished design consisted of what looked like wild strawberries, only the berries were purple instead of red.
It was certainly very well done. There was no doubt but that Miss Primrose was a most accomplished needle-woman.
"But what's the good of needlework? It doesn't teach one common sense," he muttered impatiently.
"And how like a woman!" he added with a contemptuous little snort, "Aren't red strawberries good enough for her? Trying to improve on nature with her stupid fancies and her purple strawberries!"
But he was in no mood for wasting his time and attention on a half-embroidered slipper, and tossing it impatiently away he was about to march out of the room and call loudly for Prunella Chanticleer, when the door opened and in she came.
Had a stranger wanted to see an upper class maiden of Lud-in-the-Mist, he would have found a typical specimen in Prunella Chanticleer.
She was fair, and plump, and dimpled; and, as in the case of her mother, the ruthless common sense of her ancestors of the revolution had been trivialized, though not softened, into an equally ruthless sense of humour.