“God knows!” said Master Myddleton bitterly.
Mistress Elizabeth’s answering outbreak was checked by the sound of horses’ hoofs in the cobbled yard outside.
“There he is—God help us,” she had time to whisper, and then composing her features into an amiable smile went out to meet their unwelcome guest.
Master Myddleton sat looking down at the fragments of his pipe: then he felt in his pocket and drew out a twist of tobacco which he smelt and rolled lovingly round his fingers.
He sighed.
“Drat women and work,” he said to the roaring fire which blazed, crackled, and spat as though it quite agreed with him.
Master Thomas Playle sprang out of his saddle and threw his bridle rein to the grinning ostler who ran out to meet him, and then marched up to the front door and pulled the bell sharply.
Mistress Myddleton was before him in an instant and so overwhelmed him with welcome and motherly concern for his wet, muddy condition that he had nothing to say for himself for a minute or so.
The candlelight in the stone-flagged hall showed the newcomer to be a tall, rather handsome man, some seven and twenty years of age.
Mistress Myddleton regarded him with approval and mentally summed up her daughter Matilda’s attractive qualities: the result seemed to please her, for she smiled and conducted him to the dining room.