“Still, things are not always what they seem, Dickon,” said the playwright.
“How mean you, you old wiseacre?” The tragedian linked his arm affectionately within that of his friend. “What new hare is started in that wild demesne which you are pleased to call your mind?”
“I mean, dear shrew, that those are no more gypsies than Richard Burbage is Emperor of Cathay.”
“Then who the plague be they?”
“Ha! you have me there. But I’ll wager there is far more in this matter than meets the eye.”
“So be it, then,” said the tragedian, rolling his rich voice. “But in the meantime let us see if a large cup of sack will sharpen your recollection, you subtle-minded maker of plays.”
CHAPTER XV
ALAS! a large cup of sack did little to sharpen the remembrance of Mr. William Shakespeare. It was in vain that he brought his mind to bear upon the problem that now engaged it. He felt sure he had seen both the gypsies before, and in very different circumstances; slight threads of recollection were alive in his memory, but for the life of him he could not piece them together into any hopeful clue.
The playwright spent the rest of the morning on a bench in the sun before the door of the Crown, conning diligently the close-written sheets of the latest heir of his invention.
Art is long, time fleeting. He read with mingled feelings: relief that the thing was done at last; regret of the true artist that it was not to be done all over again, so far it was from those first blithe runnings of the fancy which had peopled his mind with such glad shapes as no eye of mortal could ever look upon. Even now it wanted a title, this pleasant conceited comedy. And how was it possible to find a name for this absurd, sweetly foolish fantasy of the greenwood and a banished duke, of love and girlhood and high poesy?