A milkmaid? Would they consider—I lost myself in wild and extravagant dreams. Blowsabella? Surely no one could be less like a Blowsabella. Or for the matter of that less like the Hartopps our neighbors, who talked of nothing but plaited bits, lived in riding coats, and romped through a country dance like so many Dulcineas del Toboso!
No, no one could say that she was a milkmaid. On the other hand I doubted if she had ever seen a Panache—the latest headdress—or held cards at Loo, or squalled a bar of Sacchini’s music, or chattered down players and pit at a tragedy. She belonged to no category. She was herself, and an odd, troubling, haunting self at that!
CHAPTER VII
HICKORY KNOB
For I must go where lazy peace
Will hide her drowsy head,
And for the sport of Kings increase
The number of the dead.
But first I’ll chide thy cruel theft
Can I in war delight?
Who being of my heart bereft