“O Coquetry!” he exclaimed, “that turn o’ the neck and shoulder, that languishing droop o’ the eyes become you vastly.... Egad, I protest you are monstrous bewitching so, my Lady Herminia!”
At this she flushed angrily and knit black brows at him.
“Faith, sir,” she retorted, “by your vast knowledge o’ feminine arts I perceive you to be merely Sir John Dering!”
“Who is extreme hungry!” he added. “And there doth await him a Sir Loin o’ beef—hot! So, shall we go on, my lady?”
On they went accordingly, my lady with head proudly averted, and yet he knew her eyes were tearful, but, noting how passionately her white hand clenched itself, knew these for tears of anger only.
“Alas,” sighed he at last, “to-day poor John Derwent’s wooing doth not prosper, it seems. Love hath fled awhile on soaring pinions.”
“I never hated you more!” said she in low, steady voice.
“Wouldst break thy John’s heart, girl?”
To this she deigned no answer; but when he had repeated the question three or four times with as many different modulations, she broke out angrily:
“Aye, I would—I would, if ever I find it!”