“Truly, Madam, I did,” replied Bonaventure, “yet have small desire to mention him again. I had as lief dwell on an east wind blight.”
Isabel smiled, then sighed. “An’ my father had not given him the post I would have none of him. In his absence I like not to oust his servants.” A very dutiful daughter, she sighed more deeply.
“You would an’ you could?” he queried.
“He hath done no ill,” said Isabel musing. “’Tis wrong of me thus to mislike him, and foolish truly, since why should I concern myself with the fellow at all? Yet ’tis, as you say, the east wind blight that causes me to shiver.”
Bonaventure smiled. Truly the transparency of her desire was very patent. An’ he would he saw himself giving aid in the matter. Considering a brief space he decided to take it in hand, this rather from light mischief than any ill-will towards Peregrine.
“Truly, as you say,” said he solemn-faced, “the fellow has done no ill. ’Twere unjust to hold him to account for a long visage and a hang-dog look. He is also a peaceable man.”
“Very peaceable,” averred Isabel.
“Then ’tis evident he must bide here, since ’tis your father’s pleasure.” He looked not at Isabel as he spoke; but she, glancing side-ways at his face, was by no means so ill-satisfied at what she saw there. Matters to her mind were put in train.
Feeling them so, pity brought a slight thaw to hatred. Once she smiled on the Jester, gave her hand to be kissed on the conclusion of a song that pleased her. Light tokens truly, yet hope springing swift anew to Peregrine’s heart the subsequent happenings were the more bitter.