“It were more to your point, surely, if the gentleman had skill in cook-craft.”
Mistress Satchell was not to be outdone; she clapped her hands together noisily and shrilled her triumph.
“There, too, he meets you. After breakfast this morning, when I asked him how he fared, he overpraised my table, and he gave me a recipe for grilling capons in the Spanish manner—well, you shall know, if you do but live long enough.”
The ruddy dame nodded significantly as she closed thus cryptically her tables of praises. Brilliana uplifted her hands in a pretty air of wonder.
“The phœnix,” she sighed, “the paragon, the nonpareil of the buttery.” Instantly her smiling face grew grave.
“Well, it is not for us to praise him or blame him while he is on our hands. See that you give him good meals, Mistress Satchell.”
Dame Satchell stared at her mistress in some amazement.
“Will he not dine in hall, my lady?”
Brilliana frowned now in good earnest.
“Lordamercy! do you think I would sit at meat with a rebel? Have I not set him a room apart, to spare myself the sight of him? Serve him in his own rooms, but look you serve him well.”