Sir John was in the act of sheathing his sword, when he turned at sound of a light footstep.
“Ah, Rose,” sighed he, gazing into her troubled eyes, “yonder go two of your ‘grand gentlemen’—Paris teems with such! Better surely an honest English lover in homespun than be hunted by Brutality in lace and velvet. Did they fright thee, child ... and despite thy prayers and little cross?” Here she hid her face in her hands. “Nay, Rose, if they reverence not thy virgin purity how should they revere aught else! And Paris reeks of such as they ... to hunt thy fresh young beauty! And thou ... in thy pretty innocence—alas! Wilt thou to Paris, child?”
“Your honour knows my lady is determined on’t”
“Then be you determined also. You have a chin—let me look at it.”
Unwillingly she raised her head, eyes abased yet very conscious of his scrutiny.
“Pray what o’ my chin, sir?” she questioned.
“Firmly round and with a dimple in’t!” he answered. “’Tis a chin speaks thee resolute to choose and act for thyself. So—if your lady will to Paris let her go without you, child.”
“Without me?” she repeated, innocent eyes upraised to his. “O sir, do you mean me to bide here—with your honour?”
At this direct question Sir John was silent a moment, and, meeting the intensity of her gaze, felt his cheeks burn unwontedly.