Mr. Giggs had come home and had been to see us that very afternoon to tell us how he had been made much of at the court of the Prince Bishop of Cleves; it would be hard to tell whether the man were more unfit for a prince or a bishop. In his vanity, he let out perhaps more than he meant, as he told us how intimate he had been with the bishop's chief-councilor, a Dominican priest, and what fair promises had been made him of places at court, and how he should be able to serve Mr. Batie.
"What a popinjay the man is!" said Mistress Curtis, when he was gone.
"I hope he is no worse," said I. It had fallen to our lot to entertain him as usual, my mistress being ill at ease, and having besides a great dislike to him. "I hope he is not the pilot fish I have heard the mariners tell of, which guides the shark to its prey."
"What can you mean?" asked Mistress Curtis.
Before I had time to answer, the door opened quickly, and Bessy Giggs came in.
"Has Mr. Batie come home?" she asked, without any preface, and with none of her usual shyness.
"Not yet?" answered Mistress Curtis.
"What is it, Bessy?" I asked. "What has happened? Is Amy worse?"
"Yes—no. It is not that!" she answered. "Oh, I would Mr. Batie were at home."
"Here I am!" said Mr. Batie's calm voice, as he entered in his usual quiet way. "What is it, Bessy?"