"If she slight me when I wooe,
I can scorne and let her goe,
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?"
"Do you not admire it, Constantia?" she said.
"Admire what?"
"Why, the conceit of the song."
"I fear I did not heed it. I was thinking of—of—something else."
"Shall I sing it again?"
"Not to-night, dearest: and yet you may; methinks it is the last night I shall ever listen to minstrelsy—not but that there is philosophy in music, for it teaches us to forget care; it is to the ear what perfume is to the smell. How exquisite is music! the only earthly joy of which we are assured we shall taste in heaven. Play on."
Lady Frances again sung the lay, but with less spirit than before, for she felt it was unheeded by her friend, and she laid the lute silently on the ground when she had finished.
"Do you know," said Constance, after a time, "I pity your waiting lady, who was married to Jerry White, as you call him, so unceremoniously."
"Pity her!" repeated Lady Frances, with as disdainful a toss of her head, as if she had always formed a part of the aristocracy. "Pity her! methinks the maid was well off to obtain the man who aspired to her mistress."