“Ah, Rose,” said he, “thou flower of innocence, sure no words of mine may do thee justice; thou’rt beyond my poor poesy. Come hither, child, and tell me, is your mistress still for Paris?”
“’Deed, yes, sir, she seems mighty set on’t.”
“Alas, sweet Rose!”
“Is Paris so tur’ble wicked, sir?”
“’Tis no place for the like o’ thee—thou gentle innocent!” At this, my Lady Herminia glanced at him shy-eyed, drooped her lashes, pleated a fold in her neat apron and contrived to become the very perfect embodiment of all that ever had been, was or possibly could be virginally shy and sweet and innocent.
“But I do hear ’tis a mighty fine place, sir,” said she softly, “and I do yearn to see the ladies and grand gentlemen. And, if ’tis so wicked, naught harmful can come anigh me by reason I do ever wear this—night and day, your honour!” And she drew from her bosom a small, plain gold cross suspended about her shapely throat by a ribband. “’Twas my mother’s, sir, and ’tis good against all evil ... and I shall say my prayers!”
Now at this, Sir John must needs call to mind certain unworthy episodes of the last five years: his keen gaze wavered and he sat, chin on breast, staring into the smouldering fire.
“And so d’ye see, sir,” she continued, finding him silent, “I shall not fear anything, nor any one—no, not even though he be wicked as—as the ‘wicked Sir John Dering’ himself!”
“Child,” said Sir John at last, “go ask your lady to favour me with five minutes’ conversation.”
“Yes, your honour!” she answered, curtsying, and departed obediently forthwith.