“And I prefer to drink from pewter.”
“’Tis a survival of the Vandal and the Goth,” says I.
“And velvet frets me. I cannot bow; I cannot pirouette; I cannot make a leg; and I have no gift of compliment.”
“Mr. Dare,” says I, “you are indeed a waif, and not a high-born gentleman. Mr. Dare, your case is hopeless.”
But so heavy a decision sat upon him in the lightest manner, for he heard the feet of the approaching Emblem and the rattle of dishes on a tray. She, too, had evidently formed a low opinion of his tastes, for she had brought him the rudest pigeon pie and the vulgarest pot of ale you ever saw.
“I hope, my wench,” says I, sharply, “you let no one in the kitchen see you procure these things. They will say I have a diabetes else.”
“’Deed, no, my lady,” she replied; and then in a confidential whisper, “the soldiers are not yet begun their search. I have had a word with Corporal Flickers, who is on duty. He hath told me privily that by the Captain’s orders their investigation is to be postponed till four o’clock, as they are in such urgent need of food and sleep.”
“And what gave you Corporal Flickers for this news?” says I, frowning at her.
Emblem puckered up her lips and looked puritanically prim.
“Only a look,” says she demurely, “and a very indifferent imitation of one of your own, ma’am.”