“He is little.”
This Mistress Satchell swiftly countered with the affirmation:
“He is great.”
Tiffany thrust again.
“He is naught.”
Again Dame Satchell parried.
“He is much,” she screamed, and her face was poppy-red with passion, but Tiffany, retreating warily and persistent to tease, was about to start some fresh disclaimer of the Puritan’s merits when she caught sight through a yew arch vista of a gown of gold and gray, and her tongue faltered.
“Our lady,” she whispered to Mistress Satchell, who had barely time to compose her ruffled countenance when Brilliana came through the yew arch and paused on the edge of the pleasaunce surveying the belligerents with an amused smile.
“What are you two brawling about?” she asked, as she moved slowly towards the marble seat. Tiffany thrust in the first word.
“Goody Satchell will vex me with praise of the Parliament man.”