“I ... I wish to heaven you would not muffle your face in that pestilent hood!”
Mutely obedient, she pushed back the offending headgear, and Sir John, beholding the stolid placidity of her, the serene eyes and grave, unsmiling mouth, grew a little reassured.
“Pray what would you learn of so simple a creature as myself?” he demanded.
“As much as you’ll tell me, sir. ’Deed, I don’t even know your honour’s name—except that ’tis John.”
“Then call me John.”
“Nay, sir, I couldn’t be so bold to take such liberty! You a grand gentleman an’ me a poor maid in service!”
“But I’m in service also, Rose,” he answered. “Indeed we all are, more or less. I particularly so.”
“You!” she exclaimed, turning to stare at him. “You in service! Who with?”
“A rather difficult, very exacting person named Sir John Dering.”