“Well, child?” he questioned.
“O sir!” she whispered. “’Tis all—so—marvellous true. Now tell me, oh, please your honour—tell me o’ the future. Shall I ever be a fine, grand lady—shall I?”
“God forbid!” he answered. “Nature formed thee a better thing! Thou’rt artless as the flowers that bloom, and the birds that sing because they must, for pure joy of it. Thou’rt sweet and fresh as the breath of Spring—heaven keep thee so, if ’tis indeed to Paris you journey, child.”
“Indeed, sir, and so ’tis.”
“Ha—Paris!” quoth he and scowled. “Alas, child, you shall find there no fragrance of wild thyme, no dancing scabious flowers.... And your mistress drags you to Paris, because she is a fine lady, an exotic, blooming best in an atmosphere that for thee ... ah, child ... alas, sweet Rose! Heaven send a clean wind to cherish thee lest thy sweetness languish ... fade and wither.... Ha, the devil! Why must she drag you to Paris?”
“O, your worship, ’tis on a matter o’ life an’ death. We should be a-galloping at this moment but that the coach broke down, and my lady in a mighty pet—such tantrums! So after I’d put her to bed—and such a bed! I crept out o’ the inn—and such an inn! And lost my way ... and a man ... ran after me and so I ... I found you, sir. An’ now I must be a-goin’ back an’t please you, sir, for I must be on my road to Paris, along o’ my lady an’ all to stop two gentlemen fightin’ each other!”
“Ha, a duel, child? Do you chance to know these gentlemen’s names?”
“For sure, sir, my lady talks o’ naught beside! One’s Viscount Templemore, an’ t’other’s Sir John Dering—‘the Wicked Dering,’ as they call him at home.”
“Humph!” said Sir John, staring up at the moon again. “Ha!” And in a little, turning to regard his companion, he found her watching him bright-eyed from the shadow of her hood. “So they call him ‘the Wicked Dering’ at home, do they, Rose?”