"Doubtless."
"Thou art a most discreet apothecary, Master Posset—yea, a most wonderful apothecary!" said Fawside, gnawing the end of his moustache, and continuing to attire himself during this conversation; "and you really think she has many?"
"Yes; yet from her strength of character, I am assured she is a woman who in her lifetime will have but one love."
"One; come, that is encouraging!"
"Though little more than a girl in years, she is a woman in heart, in soul, and in mind. Do you understand me?"
"Yes—truss me those ribbons—thanks, Master Posset—I understand you, but only so far that if I am not the love referred to, I shall pass my sword through the body of the other who may occupy that position. Her faintest smile is worth a hundred golden crowns!"
"A sentiment worthy of Rabelais; but as your friend, Florence Fawside—one your senior in life and experience by many years—cease to speak or think of her thus."
"Why, if I love her?" demanded the young man, with a mixture of sadness and that impetuosity which formed one of the chief elements of his character.
"Because there are (as I call Heaven to witness!) barriers between you——"
"Grace me guide! mean you to say she is married?"