“Yes, my lady,” sighed comely Betty, large and patient and calmly indulgent to the unexpected whims and caprices of her imperious mistress. “But pray, mam, why should us undress afore bedtime?”
“That we may dress again, sure, Bet; to-night I am you and you are me ... except that my name is ‘Rose—Rose,’ you’ll remember!” admonished her ladyship, kicking off her fine gown.
“Yes, mam,” answered placid Mrs. Betty; “but why for ‘Rose’?”
“Because ’twas the first name occurred to me. Come, tie me these strings, wench! Sir John Dering is below, and if he should demand to see me—I mean you——”
“Sir John, my lady? Dering? O lud, not—not the Sir John Dering—not him, my lady?”
“Himself at last, face to face, Bet. Help me into this gown o’ yours.... O gad, what an infinity of buttons! Fasten me in, child! See, you are bigger in the waist than I, Bet ... and devilish tight above here ... I vow I can scarce breathe! Nay, button away, girl, I’ll endure it.... I must breathe prettily, pantingly. My Lady Felicity Flyte hath the trick on’t and ’tis much admired, so I’ll e’en pant and endure! Now, one o’ your mobs, girl, a cap with ribbands to’t ... aye, this shall serve—so! Now, how am I?”
“Ravishing, my lady! O mam!”
“Why, your things become me, I think.”
“Vastly, mem! O my lady!”
“Now,’tis thy turn, Bet. Shalt wear my yellow lute-string wi’ the panniers.”