“I’ll not say it over to any one, sir, and I did not want to hear it.” And Betty, with a pretty air of dignity, took up the tray and was leaving the room when Sir Christopher recalled her:—
“Betty, you’re taking away my posy! Was not it meant to tarry with the poor prisoner, and comfort him a little?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. Will you be so gentle as to take it off the tray?”
“Ay, and thank you, Betty. Good-by, my pretty turnkey.”
“I know not what that is, sir. Can I bring you aught else?”
“Yes, Betty. I fain would have pens and ink and paper, if I may; and will you or some other ministering sprite redd up the room a little?”
“I’ll ask mother, sir,” replied Betty comprehensively, and disappeared, leaving Sir Christopher plunged in meditation both perplexing and futile.
“I must wait and see how much they know before I frame my reply,” at length said he aloud; and throwing off the weight with a shrug of his broad shoulders, he took a small dressing-case from one of the inner pockets of his doublet, and began to comb, to perfume, and to curl the long dark hair which was in itself an abomination to the Puritans, and an object of scorn to the Pilgrims.
“The right mustachio still excels the left,” muttered he discontentedly, as by help of a tiny pocket mirror he carefully scrutinized the result of his labors, and separating the hairs of the left-hand mustache tried to give it a more formidable appearance, although it already nearly touched his eye and covered his cheek. A gentle tap upon the door disturbed him, but without interrupting his occupation he cried, “Come in,” and a moment later, “Oh, ’tis my little Betty again! She has brought some paper and pens, and she finds me at my toilet. What think you of my lovelocks, little Betty?”
“I never saw such on a man before, sir.”